


ghost ghost ghost

by Jacks8n



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-Typical Zoldyck Awfulness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, M/M, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-01-13 16:53:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18473125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jacks8n/pseuds/Jacks8n
Summary: Killua's built a new life for himself as far from his childhood as he can manage. But he finds himself knee deep in unresolved angst when the ghost of a murdered beauty pageant contestant begins haunting his house. With just a weekend to exorcise the ghost before Alluka and Gon return from their trip to the big city, can he and Mito crack the case and discover the killer?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> if you read/write nsfw with child characters, aged up or not, dont fucking interact me with and dont read my fic. its not for you. maybe as an alternative activity you could go choke on sewer water. :-)

He walks, every morning, from the back porch down to the ocean. The scrubby path is little more than wild grass trampled by habit. Blackberry bushes hold sparkling gossamer webs, seagulls spin out by the cliffs, and wind rustles through the rolling hills.

The beach is wide and empty. Rock and driftwood give way to sand, sand gives way to waves, and waves give way to a sky with clouds like cream.

When Gon visits, he insists on swimming to the ruddy outcrops and racing up their mossy cliffs. Killua appreciates the kick in the ass. Alone, he’s happy just to roll up his jeans and meander through the tide pools as dawn casts long shadows of the mountains over the warm bay.

The routine wakes him up in a way coffee can’t. Under a pastel sky, it’s easy to sweep back fears better left untouched. The remnant phantoms of the night are left to the night, and he is allowed his day. Often enough, at least.

He tries not to pick up shells—there are already buckets of them in the greenhouse—but that demands a level of self-restraint he reserves for only the most vigorous of training exercises. On the way back, he empties his hands and pockets into the hoard, then makes his rounds, watering and snipping and singing despite his voice still being rough from sleep.

His newest acquisition, a bush with leaves that shimmer gold and nectar that tastes about how vanilla smells, is adjusting well to its home between a slime that releases deadly toxins when touched and some tulips. The plants are still spindly and settling, but picking just one flower won’t hurt.

Firmly approaching a state he would call awake, he leaves his comfy, worn sandals on the porch steps to dry. The rickety screen door squeals when he pushes it open. 

“Good morning,” says Alluka, buttoning up her uniform cardigan in the entranceway mirror. He replies in kind and goes to pour the leftover chilli he’d left warming on the stove into her thermos.

“Can you get me clean dish towels?” she asks, jumping for balance while shoving on her black shoes without undoing the laces. “Jarvis is excited.”

As though to emphasize the point, Jarvis makes a sound like gravel reciting poetry through the hallway closet door.

Chilli spills onto the counter. Killua licks it up, and Alluka thwacks his back. “Animal. Dish towels.”

“Fine, fine.” God he can’t wait to kill Jarvis.

When he returns victorious, narrowly in the possession of both his arms, she wraps up the bread they made the night before. It got a little singed when she found a really cool snake outside and they lost track of time, but it’s edible.

She stares down the neatly packaged loaves with blank scrap paper in one hand and a pen in the other. Her jaw is tight.

He keeps an eye on the showdown as he sifts through the mess of papers on the living room floor for the worksheet he was supposed to help her with last night. He cleans as he goes, picking up energy bar wrappers and stacking tea cups.

She shakes her head, scribbles something down, and tucks it into a fold. He doesn’t ask.

It’s another five minutes of scrambling for the sheet—which they find between Alluka’s nightstand and the wall—before they’re out the front door. He tosses the flower into his bike basket, and glitter puffs at the soft bounce. Alluka sets the loaves in hers with care.

He picks up a pebble from the gravel driveway and turns it over in his palm, feeling the weight of it.

“Race to the road?” she asks, swinging onto her bike. He grins, and she beams back at him, her hands already tightening on the grips.

He throws the stone into a lazy arc. It sails, end over end, before hitting the ground with a tap.

They explode, and it settles in their dust.

This time of year, the hills are lush and golden, with birds singing from the maple copses that speckle the landscape. Gon adores the copses. He tried to explain to Killua, once, that six trees could feel bigger than a forest “thick as otter’s fur.” That an egg, balanced in the fork of a young tree so skinny it bent at the weight of the nest, was as grand as an entire cliff of sea birds in chaos.

It’s a beautiful sentiment, and one he’s reminded of nearly daily, but it’s _hard_ to _appreciate_ when he’s being **_laughed at._**

He wins by a measly twelve seconds, breaking onto the ill-maintained farming road into town with burning legs. Alluka’s grin is vicious as she rolls up to him, coasting on the washboard shoulder, trying to pass off catching his breath as waiting.

“Not yet,” she says.

He knows that one of these days he’s going to have to bust out Godspeed, but he could do without the reminder.

“Killua’s tired,” says Nanika. He reaches over and pats her head. “Killua’s sad.”

“Hey, winners aren’t pathetic,” he says, mock offended. Alluka cackles brightly.

“This one is.” He swerves to hit her, and she pushes hard to avoid him, laughing all the way. How are her legs not jelly?

They crest over the highest hill, and she stops. Killua pulls up beside her. From here, they can see all of Quarterway.

“That’s the mast ship Gon wanted to tour,” she says, pointing over to the harbour. Its wood is dark, and its champagne sails are lowered. Killua can’t say much more about The Southern Rose, but Gon was glowing when it docked. He spent all of his break yesterday fixated on it.

“They did such a good job with the restoration,” he said, staring on with wide-eyed wonder. Killua took the opportunity to peek at the cards in his hand and steal a bite of his donut. Caramel. Delicious.

Gulls strutted along the seawall they were sitting on, and flowers up and down the boardwalk were living their last days of summer glory. A small production crew took down the ropes that barred locals from getting tangled in a morning shoot for some mystery novel adaptation.

Killua doesn’t know much about the story, despite having listened to Leorio ramble about how “groundbreaking” it was for an hour. He passed by as they were filming the actual murder down on the beach. He can’t say he was impressed.

“Play,” he said. Gon lost the round—fair enough, Killua cheated about eight different ways—but got a participation kiss anyway.

Killua leans forward on his bike handles.

Quarterway is quaint, clustered around the harbour like all the shops and townhouses are squeezing to get closer. Grey rock and white shingled roofs make it look like a cubist’s interpretation of storm clouds, and the old border wall still creates a stark separation between the buildings and farmland.

They coast down the hill, through sheep flocks and blueberry fields. Alluka slaloms around potholes, and he follows, barking the occasional “careful.” He doesn’t want to have to replace a pair of tights for the third time in a month.

The hill flattens, and they cross an iron bridge into dense rows of shops and homes. Bird feeders dangle from the eaves, and shutters are thrown open. Locals greet each other with the easy, assumed familiarity shared when no one’s a stranger. Alluka’s ponytail bounces as she speeds over the uneven cobble.

From here, the path to the Freecs’s is a warren of bending side lanes and footpaths. It took awhile to learn the tricks not included on the tourist brochures—unlatched gates and covered alleys, ornery shop keepers that don’t take kindly to rushing kids and kind old couples who wave them by—but he’s getting better at navigating. At least they don’t use the main roads any more.

“Hey, can we go around the fountain?” asks Alluka, slowing to a crawl as they near the next fork.

He raises an eyebrow. That’s way out of the way. “Why?”

“It’s just nice,” she says, looking away.

He doesn’t see a reason not to detour, so they do.

The fountain courtyard is the heart of Quarterway. From it, the six main streets spoke outwards. Vendors sell food and wares, and pigeons hop along the statues of half-naked women holding out gurgling pitchers. This time of year it’s reasonable, but during the summertime it’s often packed so tightly they have to dismount and walk.

He understands her motive as soon as the cafe comes into view.

Alex is sweeping the front steps, bobbing his head and mouthing along to the music blasting through his earbuds. Killua can all but hear it.

“I’ll go ahead,” he says to Alluka.

She nods vigorously. He twists his mouth in a poor attempt to hide his smile, and she hits him.

Ah, young love.

Gon is already waiting for him on the flat roof of the narrow townhouse when he arrives. He waves, and something in Killua’s chest goes soft and gooey.

He parks his bike in the alleyway, grabs the flower, and scales up the brick, vaulting over the eavestrough and barely missing half-installed solar panels when he lands. He’s silently offered a coffee, and trades for it before leaning down to peck him on the cheek.

“Morning,” says Gon, scooting over so Killua has room to sit beside him. He sniffs the flower, smiles, and sets it on his other side with care.

“Did the captain give you a time yet?” asks Killua, taking a sip. Perfect as always.

Gon shrugs. “He’ll be hungover until at least noon. So sometime after that, I guess. I gave him my number.” His attention flits back to the flower. “These really are amazing.”

“Mm.”

Alluka turns onto the street. “I traded bread for jam,” she shouts hopelessly, dropping her bike on the front steps. She cranes her neck up at them, distraught. “I don’t even like strawberry.”

“I like strawberry,” says Gon helpfully. She winds her arm and chucks it at his head. He ducks. Killua catches it.

“Just make extra bread if you’re always going to do this,” says Killua.

Alluka puts a hand on her forehead. She closes her eyes and shakes her head. “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” she says, voice thin.

“You could double the recipe?” suggests Gon.

Alluka peeks a scowl at him and steps inside without another word. Killua snorts.

“Is she having that much trouble with fractions?”

“Gon.” He’s laughing too hard to keep his coffee steady. Some jumps onto his hand. Hot. Ow. Hot. Oh it burns his tongue ow.

“What?” asks Gon, brow wrinkled and lips puckered. It’s a moment longer before his eyes widen and he snaps his fingers. “Alex!”

Killua nods, licking himself clean.

Gon furrows his brow and puts a hand to his chin. He contemplates for a moment, then nods decisively. “They’re a cute couple.”

“Not as cute as us,” says Killua.

“Well, of course not, but close,” says Gon, bumping him in the ribs. Killua bumps him back.

“Close,” he agrees, examining the jam label. “You should give this to the captain.”

Gon leans in and gently turns it so he can read as well. “But I like strawberry.”

“You have six jars now,” says Killua.

He concedes the point. Alluka texts for them to hurry up and feed her. Killua enjoys the fun of shimmying through Gon’s narrow third-floor bedroom window with both hands occupied.

Everything about the townhouse is cramped, and his room is no exception. The clutter that had already been an organized mess on Whale Island has been condensed into leaning stacks and half-crumpled boxes. His desk is the only break in the chaos, with his laptop commanding a bubble of order that quickly decays into scrap paper and loose office supplies.

Textiles from Leorio and weird, embossed plates from Bisky decorate the walls alongside folk punk band posters. A vase of assorted flowers sits precariously close to the dresser’s edge. Maps cover the ceiling. Encyclopedias fill deep bookshelves, and trinkets and baubles—most of them small, tourist trap tokens from Alluka—squeeze between the gaps. The bed is perpetually half-made, wedged in with walls on three sides. It’s cozy.

Beside the crooked bird themed calendar on the door, hanging with a third place medal for the 34th Annual Quarterway Marathon, is a Badge of Honour for Bravery, awarded two years after the investigation into the catastrophe that was the NGL mission began. Killua never got one due to administrative oversight. Gon still gut laughs whenever it comes up.

Mito looks up from last week’s Chronicle and gives him a subtle nod of acknowledgement as he sits down beside Alluka at the kitchen table. She speeds through the neglected math worksheet, lips slightly parted and brow furrowed.

Killua browses the Association website as Gon makes breakfast in his ridiculously frilly apron. Mito sews on more whenever she has scraps.

The forums, as always, are a shit show. Today the main slugfest is between Menchi and a rookie, who made the occasionally lethal mistake of sharing a picture of their meal. Four paragraphs into her rant and Killua still isn’t quite sure why the food is wrong, but he _has_ learned more about the life cycle of glow salmon.

“Did you know glow salmon spawn a week after other species?”

“Yes?” says Gon.

Right. Of course he did. Stupid. Gon catches his frown and passes him a chunk of apology cheese.

Alluka bites the end of her pencil.

Mito side-eyes him. “Weren’t you going to go over it with her last night?”

“The irrigation system up at summit busted,” he says. “I had to go and shut it off.”

Mito scowls. Killua offers a weak shrug.

“I don’t see how this is a quarter,” says Alluka, pointing accusingly at the worksheet.

“Think of it like a pie,” says Gon.

“We should make a pie,” says Mito, flipping to the next page. “Something to use up all the jam.”

Alluka blushes and rubs the back of her neck. She’s the first to leave, hoping to catch her teacher before class starts.

Mito’s next, off to college. Killua sits at the top of the stairs and wonders if Abe, just now waking, picked this shade of orange as a joke. Mito pairs the sweater with red rain boots. He has correct opinions on that, but he’s learned to hold his tongue.

“Take care of my boy,” she says. “Don’t let him jump overboard.”

“That was one time!” Gon shouts from the kitchen.

“It should be no times!”

“Yeah,” says Killua, popping his knuckles. “Keep Gon in one piece. Easy.”

She sticks out her tongue, and he does the same. And then she holds open her arms.

Killua clenches his jaw and walks down to accept the hug. She squeezes and shakes him back and forth, which he endures with dignified squacks.

“Okay. See you soon,” she says, ruffling his hair and slipping out the door before he can retaliate.

He stands shellshocked for a moment before fixing his locks in the mudroom mirror.

Gon eats with Abe as Killua does dishes. They gossip about a letter she received from Whale Island, juggling names and stories with such ease Killua couldn’t catch up if he spent a lifetime trying.

“Bring a swimsuit,” says Gon unprompted, tipping his plate to drink the leftover syrup. Some slips down the corner of his mouth.

“That’s gross.”

Gon frowns. “You can’t wear sweatpants at a waterpark, Killua.”

He steals the plate away. Gon grieves his loss. “Not that, idiot. Don’t drink syrup.”

“Abe drinks syrup,” says Gon, pointing at her proudly.

“I do,” says Abe, nodding wisely. “I do everything.”

Killua doesn’t dignify them with a response, but they giggle anyway.

The cuckoo clock on the wall sings nine. Abe claps her hands. “I’m going to be late,” she says, shuffling off to get dressed.

And they’re alone again.

Gon reaches around Killua to wet his hand. Water runs down his arm and drips off his elbow as he scrubs the stickiness off his mouth.

“With eggs. Unbelievable.”

“You should try it sometime.”

“Not gonna happen.”

Gon wraps his hands around Killua’s waist, pressing lightly. The lace on his collar tickles the back of Killua’s neck. “Anyway, I’m free this morning if you need extra muscle.”

“I’d call Alluka for that,” says Killua.

Gon laughs. He slips his wet hands under Killua’s shirt, and Killua flinches.

“You make it difficult to do dishes properly, you know that?”

“Tough luck,” says Gon, nuzzling into Killua’s shoulder. “You’re smart. Figure it out.”

He sighs. He pats in Gon’s general direction, and winces when he accidentally pokes him in the eye. “No muscle needed. Anne wanted to show me her succulents, so I’m having brunch at her place.”

“You’re a mooch,” says Gon.

“Hey, I brought jam!”

Gon pinches his belly—the consequence, apparently, of not living and breathing training. “Mooch.”

“Jerk.”

“Mwah.” Gon plants a sloppy, vaguely sticky kiss on his cheek. “I’m gonna see if Jane needs anything done then. I’ll call when I hear back about the tour.”

“Sounds good,” says Killua.

And then he’s home again, parking his bike in the shed.

Time for work.

***

He sits on the top step of the back porch and manifests as wide an En perimeter as he can. Seventeen meters isn’t anything to brag about, but it’s a work in progress. At least it’s enough Alluka would notice, even in her sleep.

He closes his eyes and frowns, stretching as though that will help to adjust to the sensation of everything around him _there_ before rising to his feet.

He doesn’t have time to waste. While he’s been surveying for the past few weeks, today he has to finish scouring the target range, and the area he has to cover is triple what he can normally manage without appearing fatigued.

As always, he goes through the house first, just to make sure nothing’s changed. The only aura of note is the potted bastard lurking in the hall closet. Alluka’s room is completely clear—he checks it a few times anyway.

The run to the wooded mountains turns up nothing but a fox den. The pair startle when he passes by, and he shouts an apology over his shoulder.

Undeterred, he zigzags through the trees, staying on ground level to maximize his effective range. Godspeed would whip him through in a matter of minutes, but he has to stick to a disciplined jog if he wants to accurately sense anything. Too slow, though, and he’ll drain himself before he runs out of work. It’s a balancing act.

Fallen logs and wiry blackberry bushes force him to watch his step and occasionally back him into corners to check blind spots. He wouldn’t have left the worst for last, but his En was a piddly five meters when he started the search. The steep, bramble-clogged ravines he’s rushing through now would’ve taken years.

Twenty minutes in he has to stop and catch his breath. His Nen fizzles back into an unconscious stream, and he leans over with his hands on his knees, sweat pouring down his brow.

He’s so fucked.

It takes him two hours to sweep the last of the hillside. And there’s nothing.

Shit.

He drags himself back to the house, hair plastered against the back of his neck and limbs heavy from aura drain. Gon texts that the captain will be ready for them in an hour as he walks through the door. He sends a thumbs up emoji and refills his water bottle.

Time for a quick nap, otherwise he’ll be dead on his feet.

***

The front door lock clicks. Killua’s eyes flash open before he registers the familiar aura signature and settles back into the cushions. And then he sits bolt upright.

“Oh!” he mutters, groping for his phone on the floor. It’s well past when he said he would be there. He must have slept through the alarm.

He pushes himself up as Gon steps into the living room, eyes wide and curious. Not upset, thankfully.

“Oh there you are,” he says, setting down the slop bucket. A hoof folds over the edge. Killua’s eyes water at the smell.

“Sorry I missed the boat,” he says, giving a strained apology smile. He pops his back. “I burnt out training.”

Gon pauses with his hand around the closet knob. “Oh. And how was Anne?”

Killua’s heart skips a beat. His eyes widen before he can school his features into boredom. “Good.”

Gon nods, slow and deliberate, and it’s the final nail in the coffin of this going over smoothly. “Right.”

Shit shit shit.

He feeds Jarvis as Killua reheats leftover string beans in the microwave, and when his hands are scrubbed clean, he joins Killua on the couch. Killua pulls up his legs and leans against Gon, and Gon rests his arm around the back of the cushions.

They sit quietly for a few moments. Gon watches him, and he does his best to act normal. It’s always impossible when you’re trying, though.

“Are you alright?”

Killua wears a limp bean like a mustache and smiles at Gon. It’s a last ditch effort. Gon’s expression stays resolutely patient and unannoyed. Killua scowls and shoves it into his mouth.

“I have never been more okay,” he says.

Gon holds his skull like he’s scared he might break it and presses a kiss into his hair. Killua has another forkful of beans. “It’s okay to not be okay, y’know?”

Killua snorts. “How wise, Freecs.”

Gon flicks his ear. Killua rubs it in mock hurt, pouting exaggeratedly.

“You’ve been weird for weeks,” says Gon.

 **Shit shit shit shit shit.** “Nightmares. The usual. It’ll pass.”

“Does Alluka know?”

Killua shrugs one shoulder. “Hers are worse.”

“It’s not a competition.”

“She has enough to worry about.”

“She should know.”

Killua points his fork. “Don’t you dare.”

“What?”

“Tell her. Like I said, it’ll pass. These things get worse when they turn into… things.”

Gon lets silence speak his disagreement, staring at Killua like his eyes cut through bone. Killua does his best not to give anything.

His beans need more salt.

Jarvis burps, interrupting their standoff, and Gon sighs. “Can I sleep here tonight?”

Killua pauses.

Maybe.

Gon’s already seen him tired today. He can play it off as an honest mistake. Besides, that’s better than Alluka finding him. Or worse, Nanika.

“You’re always welcome,” says Killua. Gon beams.

He lies down with his head in Killua’s lap. “Since you ditched me you have to listen to me talk about The Southern Rose until we die,” he warns.

That doesn’t sound too bad.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> emetophobia cw. stop after "He washes up and puts on a movie." summary at end

The first time the ghost appears, he’s tired. Deeply tired, in an existential way that makes him want to drift out to sea and sleep on the bouncing waves until his soul has been carved smooth like the rock in his hand.

Killua stands in the water up to his calves. It’ll be another hour until dawn, when he won’t feel so guilty about waking Gon to distract him from the mundane horror of an insomnia fueled haze. Brooding out here, just beyond the reach of Alluka’s awareness, will do until then. 

He throws the stone. It’s swallowed before it has the chance to skip.

The thin, silver horizon is all that holds apart the stars and the sea. He stares at it until the heaviness of his eyelids is too gargantuan to fight and he’s sunken to his ankles in the sand. Everything aches.

There isn’t a voice behind him, but there might be a whisper scratched by the wind itself. He whirls, hands clenched into fists.

A woman stands at the top of the beach, too far away for him to make out her features. Sundress soaked and hair whipping as though buffeted by a vicious gale, she glows, luminescent and stark against the weight of a moonless sky.

She takes a step towards him, and it’s silent.

Killua drops into defensive form and ignites crackling orbs in his palms. She vanishes as though cut from existence.

For a few weeks, he’s wary, but it’s easy to rationalize it away as a sleep deprived hallucination. Nothing he hasn’t had to deal with before. Nothing to think too hard about.

The second time she appears it’s midday, and she stands, close enough he can make out her running mascara, in the path of the car. Killua grabs the wheel, and Gon brakes hard as they skid into the oncoming lane. 

The car lurches to a stop. 

Gon processes in complete stillness, hands open and eyes wide.

Killua checks over his shoulder.

“What—”

“Sorry. Squirrel on the road.” He grimaces, still looking back at the now empty spot where she had been standing. “I shouldn't have done that,” he says, quieter.

Gon furrows his brow. “I didn't see a squirrel,” he says, not to accuse Killua of lying so much as to express confusion over not noticing it himself.

Killua lets go of the wheel like it burns and motions impatiently. “Get us out of here before we’re hit.”

That’s harder to ignore.

He begins seeing her everywhere. Beside him on the porch as Alluka returns from school. Far off, hovering over the morning waves. Standing, in the corner of his room, still as a snapshot, eyes locked on his, for hours. His sleep gets worse, and it was already pretty fucking bad, until he’s running on half-lidded naps and determination.

When Gon let everyone know he wasn’t able to use Nen, Kurapika sent a collection of leather-bound tomes with curled pages and encrypted text. Deciphering them is a project Gon works on diligently, often when he tags along during training sessions. Most of it focuses on century old theories about the source of Nen and how type is determined, but it’s a possibility that somewhere in the ciphered words lies a clue.

He spends hours in Gon’s room going through the box of scribbled translations, searching for any technique to explain what’s happening. To put himself back to _normal._

He finds nothing.

He goes back to ignoring it.

  
  
***  
  


Killua sits on a driftwood log and pokes at the cut on his leg. It’s shallow, so he must have clipped a vein for how much it’s oozing. “It’s worse than it looks,” he assures. Although it does sting.

Alluka doesn’t respond. He looks up.

She stands rigid and intense, staring down the beach. Killua swivels to follow her gaze.

The ghost watches them from afar. His heart pitches through his chest to the ground, and he chokes back his gasp before Alluka catches it.

“Do you recognize her?” she asks.

His fingertips tingle as he feels out his aura, preparing for the worst.

It perishes, and Alluka takes a step back. She’s still for a moment, brow knit and fist clenched at her side.

“Sorry,” she says, shaking her head. “Nevermind.”

  
  
***  
  


He contacts Bisky.

“The Nen will either be connected to a person or an object. Most commonly, to an object,” she greets when he picks up her call back.

He balances the phone between his ear and shoulder and waves for Alluka to go on ahead and pick out cereal. She rolls her eyes, but caves when he mouths “anything you want,” as though he doesn’t let her pick every time.

“What kind of object,” he asks, putting orange juice in the cart.

Bisky scoffs. “I don’t know. Something important to the ghost, I guess.”

He wipes the condensation off on his jeans. “Thanks, that’s really helpful.”

“If you told me more about your situation, I could do more for you.”

Killua scratches his temple and makes a sound like air leaking from a tire. “Just curious, I guess.” Best to maintain plausible deniability.

Her flat disbelief carries over in the silent crackle. In his mind’s eye her arms are crossed. He rubs his toe on the checkered linoleum. “Tell me more?” he asks, wary, like she’s going to bite off his hand.

“Fine.”

He fist pumps. The woman picking out a probiotic yogurt beside him gives an amused side-eye, and he blushes.

“When a ghost is bound to an object, the Nen user—usually trained, though occasionally there are geniuses—attached themselves to a foothold before death. You know the phenomenon of aura maintaining or strengthening?”

“Yeah.”

“This is an extension of that concept.”

Killua nods, even though she can’t see him. “Okay, got it. And if the ghost is bound to a person…?”

“Oh, that’s where it gets interesting,” says Bisky, her voice picking up. “The leftover will of the parasite feeds off the aura of their host. Sometimes the host is drained, and sometimes they’re strengthened or gain abilities. That’s a concept you should be familiar with.”

“Very.” She laughs. He sighs and grimaces.

“The main difference is that Nanika is still a person. Ghosts don’t maintain sapience. They’re time capsules.”

Killua adjusts the strap of his purse. “Right. So, say a ghost was dangerous…”

“There’s no way to reason or negotiate with it. It’s acting entirely on a predetermined drive.”

“Yeah.”

Alluka pokes her head into the aisle, tapping her wrist for him to hurry up. He holds up his palm.

“Ghosts only appear near their foothold, no matter what it is. If you weren’t seeing it before, it’s probably appeared because something changed in the environment, or its host moved closer.”

“My sister’s an asshole. I have to go.”

“Wait, last kind,” says Bisky. He scowls at Alluka, who’s trying and failing to moonwalk. “It’s technically not a ghost since there’s no leftover Nen involved, but sometimes people manifest images with their own aura of varying complexities. Some can have conversations, while others aren’t much more than moving pictures.”

“Okay.”

“And you should tell Gon about it,” says Bisky. Killua freezes. The fluorescent lights buzz.

“About what.”

“The ghost you definitely aren’t being haunted by,” says Bisky, brash, like she’s annoyed he’s still playing coy. He opens and closes his fist.

“He can’t use Nen.”

“He’s a good problem solver.”

“It’s dangerous.” Killua rubs his eyes. Alluka bumps into a woman and hastily apologizes. “I have to go.”

“Right. Call me when you sort it out. I’d start with sweeping wherever you’ve seen it for anything that gives off an aura.”

Killua smiles. “Are you worried about me?”

“Didn’t you have to go?”

  
  
***  
  


The nearest big city is a two hour drive down the coast. While it started a village no grander than Quarterway, it was better located for trade and snowballed through the centuries. Layers of architecture build on top of each other to neon lights and high rise apartments.

Alluka buzzes when he suggests spending the upcoming long weekend there.

“Just us?” she asks, sitting up straighter.

Killua walks his hands up and down the steering wheel. “Actually, I thought it would be nice to bring Gon along.”

She puffs out her cheeks and frowns seriously. “You’re right. He’d be sad if we left him behind.”

Gon is harder to persuade.

Killua drops her off at Alex’s for a birthday party with a remarkably short guestlist, then heads over to the bar. It’s a quiet weeknight evening. No one else is around except for a few locals in the corner. Marty—planter five out at Ironbridge—gives him a wave.

He makes his pitch as Gon—is that a new freckle on his cheek?—dries glasses.

“Wouldn’t you three rather go alone?” he asks, avoiding Killua’s stare. 

He leans forward on his elbows, almost hanging off the counter. “No way. You’re too much fun.”

Gon throws his towel over his shoulder and rests the heels of his palms against the bar as he worries his bottom lip red. There’s a weight in his unfocused eyes that shreds Killua’s heart like wet paper.

He leans forward into Gon’s line of sight and goes for his most charming smile. “Pumpkin,” he sing songs.

Gon’s nose scrunches up as he turns away.

Killua grins, emboldened. “Sweetheart.”

Gon steps back, ears red. “Fine.”

“Good,” says Killua, drumming his knuckles.

He fucking hates himself.

  
  
***  
  


That night the three of them make a rough schedule of places to visit. Alluka adds to the list with a glitter pen, tapping her finger on the page and explaining the shops and restaurants as she goes.

“Just pick whatever,” says Gon, lying on top of Killua’s covers, when he’s asked what he wants to do.

Killua pokes him in the stomach. Gon laughs, curling away. “It’s a group trip, dummy,” says Killua. “What do you want to do?”

“Just do what you would normally do,” he says. “I’m sure I’ll enjoy—Alluka, what was…?”

“The hoop skirt place?”

“Yeah, it sounds nice.”

Killua thwacks an open hand on Gon’s stomach just hard enough he coughs.

Alluka’s phone rings. She glances at the number and grabs her jacket. “I’ll be on the beach,” she says. “Should be back in half an hour.”

“Okay,” says Killua, as she bounds into the hallway.

Gon waits until she’s out of earshot. “Alluka sure seems happy lately.”

He shrugs a shoulder. “She’s making friends at school.” The screen door squeals open, then closed. He glances at the clock and sets a mental timer.

Gon flops his arms out, eyes closed and brow gently pulled. Killua scoots closer.

That freckle is definitely new. He runs the pad of his thumb over it, and Gon smiles in a way that makes Killua wish he’d done this sooner.

“We never travel together anymore,” he says, eyes lazily sliding open. “I kind of miss it.”

“Me too.”

Gon lights up at that, cheeks round and eyes sparkling.

Killua bites his tongue.

  
  
***  
  


After a few minutes of dumping gratuitously detailed information on The Southern Rose’s storage system, which, Gon promises, is just a teaser of what’s to come, he has to head off for his shift.

That leaves Killua the unpleasant job of washing out the bucket. Bloody residue peels off as he blasts it with a hose from ten feet away, one hand in his pocket. Alluka, back from school, announces her arrival by ringing her bell a restrained forty-seven times. She glides to a stop beside him.

“You shouldn’t do that in the front yard,” she says.

Killua shrugs. If Jarvis eats it, the wildflowers should too.

“How was the boat?” she asks, leaning forward on the handles.

“I couldn’t make it,” he says.

“Why not?”

“Kinda overdid training this morning.”

She probes him with a stare. “Doing what?”

“Exercises.”

“Mm.” Alluka shakes her head. “Anyway, Jane invited me and Nanika to have supper at her place, so—”

“You’re abandoning your only brother?” He sprays mist her way and she shouts at him, holding out her hands to block it.

“One, I still count Kalluto. And two, I’m a growing girl. I need meat.”

Killua turns off the hose. “There’s still some left, if—“

“No thanks. Enjoy your sugar cereal.” God he wishes.

“I’m not invited?”

“Gon passed me. He said he’s going to try and get some time off tonight to hang out with you.”

Killua purrs. Good to know. “As long as I am entertained.”

“Okay bye.”

“Bye.”

That only gives him a few hours.

Killua ties the bucket down in the truck bed and makes the winding drive up to the mountains.

  
  
***  
  


It was Jane’s idea for him to take over coordinating the community gardens. “My mom used to do it, but her arthritis is too bad to keep it up,” she says, sloping a spoonful of mashed potatoes onto her plate. Some slaps onto her fitted blouse, and she hastily thumbs it off.

“I’m not much of a gardner,” says Killua, sitting wedged between Abe, Mito, and the wall.

Gon flaps his hands to hold his turn speaking as he clears his throat with a sip of the sparkling apple juice Alluka chose to bring. “I think it’d be great for you, Killua!”

He screams “back me up” with his eyes, and says, “I don’t know the first thing about it.”

“Vira will teach you,” says Jane, smiling earnestly. “It’s not like she’s quitting. Just missing a working pair of hands, is all.”

Killua looks around the table and finds that every single one of his wretched, traitorous allies is sympathetic to Jane over him. Gon’s hardly able to keep still.

He stabs a fork into his roasted carrots. “Fine, but just as a helper. I don’t want to be the coordinator.”

  
  
***  
  


“You’re late,” says Vira, lifting her chin.

He is. So late he’s surprised she’s still waiting.

She sits on the hood of her car, trashy magazine open, and appraises him over the rim of her sunglasses. Her leather jacket is broken in, and her short hair is dyed blonde. She’s younger than everyone made her out to be.

He wasn’t expecting this of a retired doctor. More than that, though, he’s surprised Jane, who apologizes to inanimate objects when she drops them, is at all related to her.

Killua takes a sip of his iced coffee. Vira makes direct eye contact with him—that’s rare—and pushes her glasses back up. “The storm last night blew down the netting. You need to put it back up before the deer destroy everything.”

He turns.

The garden is a cluster of numbered log planters just beyond the dotted, crumbling line of stone that was once Quarterway’s wall. Sunflowers, ground cherry bushes, and grape vines wrapped around cages spill over the sides of their boxes. Chicken wire to about his forehead encircles it all, held up by wooden fence posts. Two at the back are tipped, and the netting has ripped off their neighbours.

Killua sighs.

It’s a disappointingly easy job. He rights the posts and shovels dirt back into place before rehooking the wire. By the time he’s done, his drink still hasn’t quite melted.

“That all?” he asks, reaching for the keys in his pocket.

She looks up from the magazine, as though she hadn’t noticed him returning the tools to the maintenance chest. “You have somewhere to be?”

Killua scratches the back of his head.

A smile slips across her face like blood weeping through the cracks in a tile floor. “There isn’t much to do,” she says, and he _knows,_ with a bored dread, where the day is going. “I’ve just gotten a little behind on the upkeep.”

By the end of it all, he’s irritated and tired. Nothing is ever quite good enough, and once it is, there’s always _one more thing_ to be done. He repairs gates and walkways and greenhouse light bulbs. At one point, she has him change a birdhouse from blue to red. Just to fuck with him. He isn’t even sure it was on garden property.

When he returns home, Alluka is making them food. Actual food, with like, vegetables. Her smile is unwavering.

“How’d it go?” she asks, filling up his bowl with steaming soup.

“Fine.”

She swats him for the non-answer. They eat in front of a movie.

“I’m glad you’ve found something,” she says during the opening credits. 

Killua doesn’t understand why she’s so excited about him having more chores. There’s enough to do between getting her to school and keeping Gon out of trouble. He’d rather not spend time working for someone who hates him for no reason.

Weeks later, just as he’s starting to believe she’s found someone else, he gets a call.

“Can you come over to the chicken coup right away?” asks Vira, voice sharp. He rubs his eye.

If it weren’t for Alluka sitting across from him, he would have lied and said he was busy. He stacks his dishes nicely for Alex, who’s flitting between delivering food and making sure the tables—specifically those around theirs—are polished to sparkling.

“Sure. I’ll be there in five.”

“Good.” She hangs up on him. _She_ hangs up on _him._ Un-fucking-believable.

“I’ve gotta go,” he says, slipping on his jacket. Alluka pouts until he tells her who it’s for.

“Have fun,” she says, giving him a thumbs up.

“Thanks, but I won’t,” he smiles.

The Summit garden serves the cluster of homes just at the edge of the forest. It takes him ten minutes to bike over. He isn’t pushing himself particularly hard.

When he turns the corner, Vira is standing at the curb beside a father trying to placate his wailing son. Her nose is wrinkled and her arms are crossed. He stops a safe distance away.

“What is it?” he asks, kicking down his brake. The door to the chicken run hangs crooked on its hinges.

Vira points a thumb over her shoulder. “A bear got in and killed Chloe.”

“Clover,” corrects the boy.

“Right. Clover,” says Vira, gesturing as though to say “why does it matter” as soon as he looks away. Killua scowls, and she drops her hands, almost self-conscious.

“She was so fluffy,” says the boy, before devolving back into sobs. His father holds his shoulders and coos.

Killua clicks his gears back and forth restlessly. “What do you need?”

“A hole,” says Vira.

The boy doesn’t take that well. The father stares daggers at her. This is all going to make him late to the season finale of The Bachelor.

He hops off his bike and kneels beside the kid. Snot dribbles down his chin. “Would you feel better if we had a ceremony for her?”

The boy stutters in a breath. “Yeah.”

“Okay.”

He calls Gon, who shows up with Abe at his side. Killua digs in an unused corner of the property as he collects the remains in a shoebox and she keeps Vira away from the kid.

The shovel handle rubs the skin between his thumb and index finger raw. It’s been a long, long time since he dug a grave. Illumi never encouraged subtlety. Subtlety, Illumi once told him when he’d asked why they were dangling a body from a crane, was not the Zoldyck brand.

Small mercies, he supposed. Digging was miserable work.

Gon stands beside him, box in hand. “Are you alright, Killua?”

“Yeah.” Four feet should be enough to keep scavengers out.

The boy walks over, holding hands with both Abe and his father. His crying has slowed, even though his face is splotched and his eyes are red.

“Would you like to see her?” asks Gon.

The boy’s chin wrinkles. Killua holds his breath.

“You don’t have to,” Gon adds.

“Maybe,” says the boy.

Gon sits on his knees and opens the shoebox in his lap. The boy, with utmost care, brushes down Clover’s feathers.

Killua checks over Gon’s shoulder. He’s hidden the worst of it with her wing.

“She’s cold,” says the boy. He pulls his hand back. Gon closes the box. Clover goes in the ground.

Abe says some words. Gon fills in the prayer with her, doubling it in some places and responding in others. Vira hovers just within earshot, and the boy thanks Clover for being gentle when he shared his cherries with her.

And then he helps Killua fill the hole.

“Thank you,” says his father as they leave. Killua nods weakly and waves at the boy as he hops into the car.

Gon touches his arm, and he flinches. “We’re gonna head out. Want a ride?”

Killua shakes his head. “I have to go pick up Alluka,” he says, already composing the text he’s going to send letting her know she’ll have to bike alone.

“Okay.” Gon pecks his cheek. “See you tomorrow,” he says, slipping away. 

The wind howls hollow, and only he and Vira are there to hear it. She shoves her hands in her pockets and kicks beside the freshly-turned earth.

“He’ll get over it,” she says. Not unkindly, but with no real attachment, either.

“Your patients must have loved you,” he spits. “Shit fucking people skills.”

She whips around to stare at him. For a moment, he thinks she’s going to storm off—or worse, launch into some garbled defense. But instead she bursts into a laugh, and he finds himself unsettled. He doesn’t usually have this much trouble reading people.

“Figured there was a reason Jane liked you,” she says, wiping her eyes.

He scratches the back of his neck. “If she liked me, she wouldn’t have me helping you with some stupid empty lots. Also, wasn’t a joke.”

Vira shakes her head. And then she smiles at him. The first one he thinks might be genuine. “See you around, Zoldyck.”

“Killua.”

“Whatever.”

Bastard.

He fixes the run that night, holding a flashlight with his teeth. The remaining chickens, confined to the coop, make small clucks whenever light flashes through the cracks.

Vira calls again the next day. He’s home alone, and just out of bed. “Lunch?” she asks. It’s already past noon.

Killua bites his lip.

By going to lunch, he’d be tacitly accepting her unspoken offer. And he already fills his days. With grocery shopping and driving Alluka and keeping a step ahead of her schoolwork on his own. With training—always, always training, for the day his family tires of the whole escapade and drops the knife hanging above his head. With writing letters to far-away friends.

But also, more than he would care to admit, with movies he’s already watched and long naps that blur into sleep. With cleaning the stove, again, because Gon’s away for six months on a crabbing rig and Alluka’s sleeping over at a friend’s house. With baking cookies just so he has an excuse to visit Abe and play a few rounds of rummy, even though he doesn't quite feel _there._ With making small talk at the market with disinterested locals.

The last thing he wants is a volunteer commitment, let alone as a _community garden coordinator._

But like a light switching, the silence of the house—not a remarkable silence that sets his nerves alight, but a dull, empty one—shifts from comfortable to lonely.

He wonders how he never really noticed it before.

“Sure.”

  
  
***  
  


Vira’s house is far out in the pines, with a steep sloped roof and a front garden more thicket than flower. The kettle boils just as he steps inside the door, propped open with a painted rock.

“Tea?” she asks as greeting.

“Chai,” says Killua.

It’s cozy. The walls are painted a calming brown, and the couch she offers him is ruby. Tasteful, if somewhat odd.

Pictures hang on the wall. Jane in ballet. Jane holding a turtle. Jane graduating college. Killua recognizes Jane and Mito in their matching festival costumes as one he took himself.

There are a few with Gon and Abe, others with Alluka, and, shockingly, one with him hovering at the edge of a group shot. He’s almost flattered she didn’t crop him out.

Vira herself is nowhere to be found, unless you count her framed degrees.

They sit across from each other, and she sets a paper on the coffee table. The air shifts, and Killua is reminded of memorizing floor plans in a past life. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hot mug cupped in his hands.

“Watering days are decided by whether the address is odd or even,” says Vira, pointing to a schedule. Killua holds his chin. “When you’re timing the irrigation systems, you should avoid peak hours as well.”

“Right,” he says. He pockets the slip.

Vira puts down a key with a soft tap. “And this will get you into all of the supply chests.” He pockets that, too.

He waits expectantly. She presses her lips together.

That’s apparently it.

Vira slaps her thighs. Killua takes a sip of his tea, and she does the same.

He wishes Jane were here to fill airtime.

“Right. I’m supposed to feed you,” says Vira, scratching her temple.

They stare into an empty fridge. There’s a case of beer, half a stick of butter, and the most expensive bottle of wine Killua’s seen since he raided Kukuroo Mountain to pick up Alluka’s dolls and his father coerced him into a “chat” about his “relationship judgement.”

“Liquid meal?” she asks.

“Immune.” Killua stares at her. “What do you eat?”

Vira shrugs. “Takeout, mostly. I didn’t really think this through.” He shakes his head in awe. She snaps her fingers. “A bowl of mushrooms is a meal.”

“Sure,” he says. Why have delicious delivered pizza when they can have weird little bulbous things that grow in the dirt.

They walk through the wooded hills behind her house, eyes to the ground. His breath rises in puffs, and he keeps his hands in his pockets to escape the chill as he scours the fallen logs.

“Found one,” he grins, plucking the ugly little thing out of its bed of decaying leaves. He holds it out at arm’s length for Vira to see, smiling proudly. “There’s a bunch right here.”

She grabs it out of his hand. “Fool. See how irregular it is?” she asks, turning it around.

“Uh, yeah?”

“This is a false morel,” says Vira, shaking it for emphasis. “Poisonous. Do not eat.”

Killua’s scrunches his nose as she pulls it apart, tossing pieces into the bushes before wiping her hands on her pants. Killua turns his own over.

False morel.

Maybe he was too young to remember.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll find some good ones. They’re everywhere around here.”

And he does find some, although she finds most of them.

They return to the house with a used sour cream container full to overflowing. She grills them on the stove, adding butter and garlic.

It’s, to his surprise, fucking delicious. They order pizza anyway.

  
  
***  
  


Killua dusts his hands on his jeans and shakes the bucket. That should be enough. He rises to his feet and sets off down the mountain.

Alluka is still home when he returns, so he hides his supper beside the house.

“Look at this selfie Alex sent me,” she says, holding her phone too close for him to see clearly as he steps through the front door. “Isn’t he cute?”

“ _So_ cute,” says Killua. She snorts, giddy and ugly. He smiles.

And then she leaves for Jane’s. He retrieves the bucket. It didn’t have a chance to dry, so there’s a thin, brownish puddle that sloshes with every step.

He washes the mushrooms, then brushes off as much of the dirt as he can with his fingers and a fork. He cuts away the ends of the stems, grills them with a generous cut of butter, and eats them straight from the pan.

They’re sort of nutty.

He washes up and puts on a movie.

  
  
***  
  


It’s awful. It’s fucking awful. How did he forget how fucking awful this was.

Gon sits on the counter and babbles on about the ship as Killua narrows his focus to just _not burning the popcorn he’s making_ while also not falling over.

His stomach churns. He’s dizzy, and every twist of his neck threatens to topple him to the floor. It brings back too much he doesn’t want to think about, so he tries to think about nothing, but that just makes it too easy for his thoughts to drift exactly where he doesn’t want them to.

Gon puts a heavy hand on his head. Killua’s eyes regain their focus. “And then, when Hanzo tried to get the bear trap off my leg—”

“I’m listening, I’m listening,” says Killua, trying to push him away and missing abysmally. Gon laughs.

“Man, you really did burn out earlier, didn’t you?” he says, ruffling Killua’s hair.

He casually grabs the counter for balance and shrugs.

“We don’t have to stay up,” says Gon.

He gestures to their glut of popcorn. “We can’t feed this to Jarvis.” Gon’s brow scrunches. Killua regrets planting the idea. “Hey, no. Movie.”

It’s Gon’s turn to choose. He picks something dumb and loud and Killua’s asleep by the second act anyway, head in Gon’s lap and nausea rising. He stirs when he’s carried to bed, but doesn’t fight the free ride. Gon puts a glass of water on the nightstand for him and shuts the door.

His dreams are incoherent. The regulars blur together into a labyrinthian bog, leaving him neither fully awake nor unaware, until he’s drained beyond exhaustion and full of helpless frustration and— 

“Hey,” says Gon.

He moves. He isn’t sure what part of him. He feels leaden.

“Killua?”

He pulls the covers over his face. His arms are numb, as though he isn’t quite lined up with them. “Mm?”

“Are you okay?”

He nods and is slammed by a wave of dizziness. Even lying down, he can’t tell which way is up. “What time is it?” he asks.

“Almost one,” says Gon.

“Is Alluka back?”

“She’s in her room.”

“Okay.” Killua rolls onto his side and drapes an arm over Gon’s chest. Blood roars in his ears. “Did I wake you up?”

Gon shakes his head. The scritch of his hair against the pillow is deafening. “No, I just got back. We went roadkill scavenging. I think Jane would probably—”

“Jane can’t feed Jarvis.”

“Well, if she has gloves—”

“Gon.”

“It’s not hard, _Killua._ He just gets excited.”

“ _Gon._ ” He has no will to fight. He hardly has the energy to speak. “...Did you find anything?”

“Half a rat.”

“Nice. Well,” he says, sitting and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The room swims. He falls backwards. “Nevermind.”

“Need anything?”

“I was just gonna go for a walk, but I’m not feeling great.”

Gon sits and leans over him, a silhouette against the ceiling, haloed by the dribble leaking from Alluka’s lamp through two closed doors. There’s an edge to his posture. “What kind of not great?”

Like he’s dying. “Kinda sweaty?”

Gon puts a hand on his forehead. He shivers.

Fuck. “I’m gonna go throw up.”

“Oh, okay,” says Gon.

Killua holds onto the sink counter and vomits into the toilet. His throat burns and his eyes water. His stomach convulses painfully, and he fights just to breathe.

There are bits of mushroom in the bile. He flushes before Gon picks the lock, which he does as soon as Killua stops responding to his knocking.

“Killua,” he says simply, standing in the threshold.

He can’t be bothered to open his eyes, curled loosely on the blissfully cool tiles. Gon scoops him up, and he wraps his arms around his neck and buries his face in his shoulder. There’s a thickness at the back of his throat.

“This sucks,” he says, voice raw. 

Gon carries him back to bed, then fetches the stainless steel bowl they use for washing dishes and a damp cloth. Killua worms himself back under the covers.

A drop of water spills down his temple and tickles his ear as Gon washes his forehead. “Did you have mushrooms today?” he asks.

Killua’s eyes flutter closed. He can't help his lazy smile. Maybe it’s on his breath. “Should I have not done that?” he asks.

“Where'd you get them from?”

“I went for a walk in the mountains during your shift. I thought they were—um—”

“True morels?”

“Yeah,” he breathes.

Gon rests a hand on his cheek. Killua reaches to cover it, but loses his energy halfway through the motion. His arm flops.

Maybe his resistance isn’t quite as high as he assumed.

“How much did you eat?” asks Gon. His fingers brushing Killua’s hairline are divine as they are overstimulating.

Killua wrinkles his nose. Too much.

“Is this a normal reaction for you?”

His heart skips a beat. He opens his eyes a crack, just enough to glare. That’s not the sort of thing they talk about. “Stop fussing.”

“Should I call Vira?”

Killua laughs. It comes out a pleased sigh. “A doctor. You're funny.”

“Killua.”

“I'm not in mortal danger,” he says, throwing what he hopes is a comforting hand in Gon’s direction. “It’s just gonna suck for a few days.”

Gon says nothing.

Killua falls back asleep. And, for the first time in awhile, it's deeply, deeply still.

  
  
***  
  


He throws up again in the morning, but afterwards feels better. He looks awful, though. Killua pulls at his cheeks in the mirror. So _sallow._

He teeters to the kitchen. Gon sits on the living room couch, phone in hand but eyes distant.

“You’re up,” he says, relief in his voice.

“Did you sleep?” asks Killua.

“How are you feeling?”

He gives two thumbs up. Gon opens his mouth, brows furrowed, before scrunching his features. He stares at Killua like he’s a problem to be solved. “So I was thinking that instead of going down to—”

“Hey, woah, who said we were cancelling?” says Killua. He makes it to a chair before collapsing. Gon moves to join him at the table. “Alluka’s all excited. I'm fine.”

“You’re—have you looked in a mirror yet today?”

“Tell me I'm handsome,” says Killua, batting his eyelashes.

Gon looks unimpressed. Killua sighs.

“C’mon,” he says, gesturing with shaking hands. “She wants to go to that show or whatever.”

“We can do that some other time,” says Gon. “You're not going anywhere.”

Killua’s takes a deep breath. He presses his hands flat on the table. All that’s left is to reel him in.

“Then you take her.”

“And leave you here alone,” he says flatly.

Killua shrugs. “Worst of it’s over. I'll call Mito if I need anything.”

“What if something happens,” asks Gon.

“Do I look like I'm dying?” says Killua, gesturing at himself.

Gon frowns at that. His gaze darts to the hallway, as though expecting Alluka to arrive serendipitously and back him up.

“Besides, I think it’d be nice if you guys did something without me.”

Gon’s eyes snap to his.

All or nothing. He licks his lips.

“They’re kinda your sisters, too.”

Gon sucks in a sharp breath and stares at him, perfectly motionless. His eyes shine. Killua can hardly keep his open.

Gon gabs, trying to reorient. He stutters through half a dozen responses, all cut off by the next, before clacking his mouth shut. Killua rests his chin in his hands as Gon stares out the casement window, brow furrowed, opening and closing his white-knuckled fists.

Worst part is that he actually meant it. Using the truth as a weapon feels even slimier than lying.

“You’re sure?” asks Gon, and Killua isn’t quite sure what the question is. He nods anyway. “Definitely?” He nods again.

Gon pouts at the ground and bounces his leg. Always so thoughtful.

Killua sinks into his folded arms, soft smile hidden.

So predictable.

Gon scratches the back of his head. He looks up and laughs nervously. “It's weird leaving you behind.”

Mission accomplished. The mushrooms are making him want to throw up again.

“Don’t get used to it,” says Killua.

Gon’s smile becomes a little less guilty and a little more excited. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Jarvis snarls.

“Your job,” says Killua, closing his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> summary: Killua has a restless night. Gon discovers he ate false morels but treats it like an accident. With Killua still recovering in the morning, he convinces Gon to take Alluka down to the city without him.


	3. Chapter 3

He has a shower as Alluka wakes and Gon shuffles the essentials they’d split between them into one bag. By the time he’s out and feeling marginally less gross, broth is on the stove.

“You don’t have to make me food,” he says, hovering over Alluka’s shoulder as she chops carrots into slices, and then the slices into pretty little quarter circles.

“Die about it, bitch boy,” she says.

He grumbles and wanders off to do important work, like wrap himself in a blanket, sit on the front porch, and stare dazed as Gon loads the car and checks the tire pressure. He talks at Killua the whole time, seemingly unbothered that he can’t hold up his end of the conversation with anything more than quiet prompts.

The wide, empty grassland surrounding them sways easy, pressed down by an overcast sky. A spider, brown and docile, fiddles with its web between the railing bars. Killua curls his toes, and they scratch against the crusted sand on his sandals.

Alluka and Gon are going to leave together, and he’s going to stay here. He bites the inside of his cheek.

“Call tonight?” he asks, grabbing Gon’s pant leg as he goes to put Alluka’s purse on the center console.

Gon brushes his bangs back. Killua leans into the touch. “I don’t want to wake you up if you’re sleeping,” he says. “Why don’t you call us?”

“Alright,” says Killua.

“Okay,” says Gon, kissing the crown of his head.

There’s an argument about which route to take—the faster, inland highway, or the meandering road beside the water—which he does not participate in, a verbal rundown of how Gon’s tidied up the living room he is forcibly subjected to, and an omelette, which he has a bite of to be polite before handing the plate back to Alluka. And then it’s time for them to go.

“Let it sit on low for a few hours,” she says, squeezing him so hard his eyes water. He taps her back and she remembers her strength, springing away to hold him by his arms instead. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

“Of course,” he says, prying her off.

“Phone if you need anything, alright?” says Gon. He kneels, resting a hand on Killua’s thigh. Killua smiles. Alluka is suddenly in a big hurry to get in the car. 

“Don’t worry about me,” he says as she slams the door and puts in ear buds. He runs a hand through Gon’s hair. “Have fun.”

Gon gives him a goodbye kiss. He tastes like oranges. “Deal, but you have to not worry about us, then.”

Killua nods. 

Okay, last one for real this time. His throat is tight.

The warmth of Gon’s hand falls from his cheek. He waves until they’re out of sight, swallowed by the hills. And then just a few moments longer, even though it makes him feel silly.

Chimes made of shells and driftwood clatter. Rain spits, hardly there at all, and the house creaks. Nothing breaks from the undulating waves of grass. He sighs, uneven and choked.

Avoiding the web, he pulls himself to his feet.

This is starting to feel like less of a good idea.

Killua locks the door behind himself, and leaves the blanket and his shoes a puddle in the foyer. There’s work to be done, but just a couple hours faking health has him beat.

He drags himself to his room and collapses on top of freshly changed covers. The gutter gurgles outside his cracked window. He isn’t motivated enough to cut off the draft, even though it makes him shiver.

He tries to sleep. Last night’s magic has worn off, though. He teeters on the edge, lying boneless and drained, but hangs, as though suspended, for what feels like hours.

Through slitted eyes, he watches the ghost watch him.

Her hair is wet and plastered to her skull, and her drenched dress clings to her body. Her hands are gently curled, as though she anticipates reaching for something.

A cupboard bangs in the kitchen. The ghost vanishes.

He sits, groggy and yawning, and glares at the cracked door. If Gon called a fucking babysitter he’s going to lose his mind.

The rattling continues as he prowls down the hallway.

Mito is going through their dishes.

“Yo,” he says.

She spooks and drops the plate in her hand. It shatters.

He stares at the pieces. He doesn’t want to deal with that. Maybe he’ll just walk around them until Alluka’s on her way back.

“Good morning, Killua,” she says, rubbing her collarbone and forcing a peeved smile. Her eyes narrow. “Oh God, are you alright?”

“What are you doing here?” asks Killua, leaning against the door frame in a way he hopes looks casual rather than unstable.

“I was out of sugar,” she says, pointing to the open bag on the table.

“Right.” He scowls and rubs away the sleep in the corner of his eye. “And this was more convenient than the store across the block from you?”

Her jaw tightens and she looks up at the ceiling, frowning indignantly. “Also my birthday is coming up and I need to figure out what Gon’s getting me so I can pretend to like it.”

That makes more sense. “He’s getting you a guard plant.”

“What does—”

“It’s like a venus fly trap, but bigger. Don’t worry, I was going to water him with boiling water,” he says, waving dismissively.

She gasps. “You will do no such thing.”

“He’s—would you like to see Jarvis? Where are you going to put him, Mito.”

“He has a name?” she says, sticking her hands on her hips and leaning forward as though that’s going to scare him any more than two or three or three and a quarter little bits. “You can’t kill him if he has a name!”

Killua averts his gaze to the floor. He doesn’t trust himself not to step on any shards right now, so maybe he’ll wear shoes inside. Better yet, he’ll just get around on the counters.

Mito straightens. “Wait, why are you here?”

Killua blinks. “I had a bowl of false morels for supper last night.”

_“What?”_

He pats his stomach and smiles, goofy and wide. There’s horror in the wrinkle of her brow.

“Why aren't you in a hospital?”

“I’m immune to most forms of poison”

Mito gives him a look. A “bullshit” look. Then her eyes soften. “Are you two fighting again?”

Killua jolts away from the wall and crosses his arms. “What? No, of course not.”

She steps forward and pokes him in the chest, pushing just enough he has to reshuffle a foot for balance. “He’s my boy.”

“I know,” he says, looking anywhere but her intense stare.

She wraps her arms around his shoulders, standing on tiptoes to do it, and he freezes for a moment before hugging her back. It’s a little awkward, but they’ve had worse.

“I’m proud of you,” she says.

It’s like someone’s dropped an ice cube down the back of his shirt.

He knows what he’s going to do a moment before he does it, and it fills him with as much relief as it does self-hatred.

“There’s a ghost living here,” he says. She’s warm and safe and the confession feels like an apology. 

“Oh,” says Mito, perking up. She slips off and makes for the broom in the corner. The pan is tossed his way. “What of?”

“A woman. Mid twenties, long sundress, hair down. Fancy, but in that way that looks kinda cheap, y’know?”

“Bisky last winter.”

“Yeah exactly. And I don’t know if she’s malevolent or what, but I had to get Gon out of the house because—”

“He would fuck with the ghost,” says Mito, with a depth of exhaustion that makes him smile. 

“He would absolutely fuck with the ghost.”

“Okay. Well.” Mito shrugs and brooms some shards into the pan he’s squatting to hold. “Let’s catch a ghost.”

  
  
***  
  


There’s nothing leaking aura near his sightings, so the spirit must be feeding off someone living in Quarterway. He and Mito have to identify who the woman was, track down who she was close to, and perform an exorcism, all before Gon and Alluka come home and get themselves hurt.

Quarterway’s library is brick and glass. It sits close to the water, right beside Alluka’s high school. Red cordylines line the small courtyard before the front door.

Jane smiles when she catches them waving from across the main floor. She excuses herself to the man beside her at the front desk and jogs over.

“What’s up?” she asks, looping her arms around Mito’s shoulders. Killua looks away as they share a quick peck.

“Are you busy?” asks Mito.

Jane looks over her shoulder. The man has pulled out a novel with a floral cover and kicked up his feet. He twirls a pen on his knuckles absentmindedly, and when it goes flying and skitters across the thin carpet and under a shelf, his eyes widen, locking onto the three of them watching. Mito waves. “No, not really,” says Jane.

“Could we take a look at your newspaper archives?” asks Killua.

“Sure,” she says. She’s two steps into leading them to the back before she halts and furrows her brow at him. “Wait, aren’t you supposed to be—”

“Don’t worry about it,” says Killua.

Jane stares at him. He smiles, and she shrugs. Sometimes he wonders what she must think of them all.

  
  
***  
  


Abe gets sick three years after Gon goes back home. It’s not an instant sick, but the slow, creeping kind that takes root with age.

Killua’s phone rings in the middle of the night, but that’s not uncommon. It would be unfair to expect Gon to keep track of his timezone when it changes every few days. He always picks up.

“We don't have a hospital here,” says Gon.

He dangles his legs through the bars of the hotel balcony railing. Across the road is a used car sales lot. White and green flags hang between the blazing lights, fluttering in the night breeze. “So you guys are moving?”

“We have to,” says Gon. Killua can’t decide whether he sounds excited or scared.

He bites his thumb.

The Freecs are leaving Whale Island. He tries to imagine the walls barren of ocean landscapes and how big the dining room will seem without all the furniture. It makes his heart hurt.

He and Alluka are never in the same place long. They pinball across the world, flitting through every country his license gets them into. Even when they actually stay in the same city for a few weeks, he’ll shuffle their hotel a few times.

Gon’s house is the closest thing he has to a permanent residence. At the very least, it’s been a good place to drop off stuff too big or heavy or frivolous to carry.

But he might see Gon more often if visiting doesn’t put him and Alluka in a corner, and that’s something to celebrate. In fact…

He rubs his canine.

He’s older now. Stronger. So is Alluka. And they still have the ultimate bargaining chips—his life, and Nanika.

It isn’t like he hasn’t thought of it before, but it’s never felt like the right time.

“Y’know, Alluka's been talking about wanting to go to school.”

Gon is quiet for a moment, then barks a laugh. “Sure. And we could do our senior year together. Prom. Join some sports team.”

“Not gonna happen,” says Killua, pressing the phone closer. He can’t keep still. “You’d get expelled the first day.”

“So would you,” says Gon.

Killua squishes his nose. Pointless rules? Stuff he already knows, taught at snail speed? God forbid, a _uniform?_ He wouldn’t even make it through the first _period,_ which is a shame, because prom does sound nice.

“Yeah, probably,” he says.

Gon hums his acknowledgement, and the line goes quiet.

Visits won’t be a two day sprint to try and make up for a year of separation anymore. They’ll be able to hangout whenever they want, and _do_ things, not just talk about the things they did with other people. Gon can sleepover at _his_ house for once.

“Hey, Killua?” asks Gon. Something about his voice is fragile.

“Mm?”

Gon pauses. He sighs, and Killua hears a shake in his breath. “Are you serious?”

Killua closes his eyes and leans his forehead into the bars. His chest swells. “Of course I am.”

Gon giggles.

He smiles so wide it hurts. They're going to be together again.

  
  
***  
  


Quarterway satisfies all their requirements. There’s a nearby hospital, and the population is small enough Killua will be able to keep an easy eye out for spies. It’s beside the ocean—something Abe insisted on—and the high school and college, while not world class, are perfectly acceptable.

The Freecs buy their townhouse first, and he and Alluka live out of a nearby inn as they search. After a few fruitless weeks of browsing, the realtor suggests they look at a vacation house a little further from town than they’d been aiming for.

Alluka falls in love the second they wind around the hilltop and the house glides into view. The driveway widens into a weedy bulb. Gon parks them beside the agent’s car.

“This one,” she says.

“We have to see the inside first,” says Killua.

Alluka shakes her head. “This one.”

The rancher is painted a cheery yellow. Flowers bloom in planters under the casement windows, and there’s not another house in sight.

Margaret, who wears thin transition lenses, points out various features with sweeping hand gestures as she leads them up the steps.

“It’s really nice,” says Alluka, holding both his hand and Gon’s. “And we could go down to the ocean all the time.”

Margaret fiddles with the key in the lock. “You two will love it in the summer.”

“We haven't decided yet,” says Killua.

“Yes we have,” says Alluka. She squeezes his hand.

He doesn't dislike the house. His door would be right across from Alluka’s. The open living area allows in plenty of light, and the walls are a pleasant robin’s egg blue. It’s beautiful. It just makes him… queasy.

He knows he was the one who asked for isolation, but this house is _too_ far out. Alluka loves it, though, and for her, he’ll work through his hangups.

By the end of the day, they've made an offer. By the end of the week, they’re moved in.

They don't have much to unpack. Killua's only ever carried as much as he could fit in a backpack, and even Alluka has kept herself to that and a suitcase.

The Freecs bring over their box of trinkets and souvenirs. Mito scribbles down a list of things he needs to get for the kitchen as they all sit on the floor of the yet-to-be-furnished living room and eat chips and dip.

And it's all good, except for a lingering unease.

Alluka is sucked into school life. Killua watches on, confused but supportive, as she befriends everyone in her path and talks exuberantly of her therapy sessions. Gon’s the same, and becomes a favourite of the regulars at the local dive bar. Mito brings home Jane before her first semester is over, and Abe joins every choir within driving distance.

Killua spends a lot of time balancing rocks on the beach into precarious towers.

  
  
***  
  


“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble,” says Killua, mouth watering as he peeks inside the basket at all the goodies Gon’s brought.

“Nope, I didn’t,” says Gon, flattening out the blanket. He leans in. The kiss is chaste, but leaves his sweet chapstick on Killua’s lips. He doesn’t understand how Gon can do that so easily, though he isn’t complaining. “But I wanted to.”

The bluebell meadow is on a steep slope. Moss covered boulders provide shelter for snakes Gon gleefully picks up to show him, and wildflowers grow from the stumps of fallen trees.

They spend hours talking, held in each other’s arms, until Gon’s voice is a sleepy mumble and Killua regrets not bringing a jacket. Regardless, having Gon to himself is the best birthday present ever.

They race to the house, taking the long way along the ocean instead of cutting through the hills, and are back before the next hour is chimed. 

  
  
***  
  


He doesn’t get it at first, but Vira insists he take up one of the planter spaces. “Start simple,” she says, clapping his shoulder and shoving a bag of carrot seeds into his hands.

“Sure,” he says, smiling. Like hell.

Gon refuses the packet when he tries to pass it along. “You should learn if you don’t know,” he says, leaning on the bar and pulling his reading glasses down to scan the instructions.

Killua hides his hands behind his head when Gon tries to pass them back. Undeterred, he hops, belly on the counter, to tuck the seeds in a jacket pocket and zip it closed.

“I can help you get started,” he says, landing back on his shoes with a clunk.

“Not interested,” says Killua. “Plants are slow. It’d be boring.”

Gon bobs his head back and forth. “That’s sort of the point of them?”

Killua can only hold his ground for so long before he’s accepted an afternoon of Gon’s diligent instruction. He shows Killua how to measure spaces between the seeds with his fingers, and goes through an in depth explanation about the time of year Killua loses the thread of halfway along.

And then he has to go and check on the damn things, all the way in town, just to make sure they’re sprouting, that there are no weeds, that he’s culled the stragglers choking out the healthy ones, and that someone’s singing to them, because Abe said that was important, too.

“You actually sing to them?” asks Mito, filling up the watering can Alluka painted with sunflowers. The hand pump gushes in spurts.

He rests his spade on the edge of the planter and rubs the back of his neck. “Abe said to.”

Mito laughs, not unkindly. “I believe you that she did.” Her smile is warm, and Killua averts his eyes. He goes back to transplanting the sourwax berry sprouts he started in his south facing bedroom window.

He doesn’t get it at first.

And then he does.

He gets his hands on all he can. The local oddity shop, run by a woman with cornsilk hair and dog fur on her navy sweater, has a thin but varied selection of manuals. Alluka finds herself a pair of earrings while he squints at the titles. He’s not sure what’s good, so he buys them all.

He takes recommendations from the Freecs on what else to get, then calls Menchi to ask if she has anything to add, and ends up with enough to fill a bookshelf. He orders it by least to most appropriate for growing around civilians, then digs into reading.

“Could you put that down?” asks Gon, wincing as he pats the embers off his shoulder. “You’re not even paying attention.”

“Busy,” says Killua. He blinks through the blinding afterimage of Alluka’s main ability.

“Killua,” whines Alluka, hands on her hips.

“Busy,” says Killua.

He sets up planters and a greenhouse in the backyard for projects that go beyond mint and peach trees. He grows ivy that constricts, tulips that weep honey, and “magic mystery seeds” from Hanzo he’s pretty sure are just strawberries.

“Can I touch it?” asks Gon, reaching to touch a pulsing bud, hanging from a pot on the top shelf. His eyes are glazed.

“No,” says Killua, covering his hand and holding it tight against his hip. He drags Gon back a step.

“I wanna touch it,” says Gon, voice monotone. “Killua let go.”

“If you touch it, it’ll spray acid, and you will die.”

“Right, but I want to touch it,” he clarifies, brows knit with frustration.

“That’s how it gets you.”

When he runs out of interesting plants he can bargain for through Association connections, he starts planning trips he knows won’t be possible until Alluka’s done school to giant tablelands with flowers, no bigger than his pinky nail, that glow, and dense, humid rainforests with trees who’s sap intoxicates like wine.

Everything he learns brings him new questions, and every extreme, dangerous discovery has him itching for another. He doesn’t get it, and then he does, and he _loves_ it.

Through it all, he keeps enough that are pretty for pretty’s sake to fill up the long-dusty vase on Gon’s shelf.

  
  
***  
  


He’s never been as terrified as he is now, sitting in a recording studio wearing a tie Mito said made him look professional. Sweat stains through his shirt, and he can’t control his breathing. He’s spent commercial breaks with his head between his knees.

Dave “Uncle” Werst sits across from him in a tropical print shirt and sunglasses.

“Thanks to all the listeners who sent in question,” he says, in an over-the-top voice. “And thank you, Killua, for coming in today.”

“Yeah, it was my pleasure,” he says, digging his nails into the palms of his hands. They’re listening. They must be. His heart pounds erratically. “Anytime.”

“Well, we’ll have to have you back soon,” says Uncle.

“Awesome,” says Killua, and he’s smiling now.

The red light blinks off.

He exhales in a woosh.

He did it. He answered questions about rose pruning and fruit tree grafting live for an hour and he didn’t even throw up once.

What must his mother think. God. GOD!

He can’t sit still a second longer, so he wishes Uncle a good afternoon and flees as he’s told to expect an email about booking him again.

Gon is in the hallway. He hands Killua a bouquet of bluebells before wrapping him up in a crushing hug.

“I’m so proud of you,” he says, and Killua hides his face in Gon’s shoulder.

  
  
***  
  


He’s happy. Happier and safer and more loved than he’s ever been. He’s out of the trenches of his upbringing. He’s sleeping well and thinking beyond the cat and mouse game to a time where he and Alluka won’t have to look over their shoulders. His job is helping people grow things, and he thinks he might be growing too, right alongside his ever-expanding backyard garden.

And then he slips, like a spinning top beginning to wobble.

His nights become more restless. He finds himself cataloguing exits in the grocery store. He sits on the patio of the cafe Alex works at, and as people pass by, he muses on all the different ways to kill them before snapping back to his conversation with Alluka. He sees danger in the package on Mito’s porch, or the food on his plate. Once, the food on _Gon’s_ plate, and that’s a hard scene to laugh your way out of at a medium fancy sit down restaurant.

He doesn’t understand why, just as things were getting better, they become worse than ever.

He wants it all to stop.

  
  
***  
  


“Are you happy, Killua?”

“Sure. Why?”

Jane stares off at the horizon. There’s an intense look in her eyes he doesn’t understand. She skips her stone, and it taps four times. He manages two.

“Mom and I moved here when I was six,” she says. He tilts his head. “I went to school here. I attended the same baseball matches as everyone else. I led a section in marching band.”

He smiles, picking up another stone. “Playing?”

“Clarinet. But none of it mattered. I was still never _from_ here, and that was all anyone cared about.”

He furrows his brow. “But you grew up here.” Three skips.

“Didn’t matter. You know what my mom’s like. All anyone ever saw was an outsider, but I kept trying so hard.” She nails five. “And then one day I realized it was stupid and that no matter what I did, where I came from wasn’t going to change. So I stopped feeling so guilty about it.”

The wind wriggles its way between the gaps in his knit sweater.

“Thanks for the life advice,” says Killua. Two skips. “But I’m fine.” Jane’s expressions stays flat. “Really.”

She sighs. Seven.

  
  
***  
  


The library has four microfilm projectors. Jane brings them an armful of archives, kept in small, white boxes, and they begin scanning the only paper of note Quarterway’s ever had, the Chronicle. Judging by the ghost’s image, they prioritize the past fifty years. Killua starts with the oldest records, Mito with the latest, and they work towards each other, scanning the obituaries.

“Show me any women between eighteen and thirty-five,” he asks, slipping his first film onto the spool. Mito nods.

The Quarterway Chronicle has only ever published on Saturdays, but that still leaves them with over 2500 issues to sort through. The machines slip, the old computers whir, and by Jane’s lunch break, they’ve only gotten through 200.

“How’s it going?” she asks, setting coffee down for the both of them.

“Too fucking slow,” says Killua, hands shaking as he fast forwards through the film.

“Cassidy Dahl,” says Mito, printing out the page. He adds it to the list. It’s only their second hit.

“Harry and I can come help,” says Jane.

Killua pivots in his office chair. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, as soon as we’re done eating. It’s a slow day.”

“That would be really helpful,” he says, returning to the task with new vigor.

With four pairs of eyes, they actually manage to finish before the library closes. Harry and Jane banter back and forth about half-baked village gossip, Mito shoots in the occasional comment, and Killua just does his best not to fall asleep.

There are hardly any people who fit the description. Every time they find one, the others cheer, and he smiles. He rules a few out based upon the pictures, and they’re left with a list of fifteen women.

“Thank you so much,” says Mito, giving Jane a quick hug goodbye. “You too Harry.”

“Anytime, anytime,” he says, returning the films to their boxes. “Can’t say no to the little woman.”

They run to the townhouse, set up at the coffee table with her and Gon’s laptops, and grind through the list.

“What are you two up to?” asks Abe, standing at the archway with her hands on her hips.

“Solving a murder,” says Mito, wiggling her fingers like they’re magic.

“Catching a ghost,” says Killua.

“Oh, well. That’s nice,” she says, slinging her purse over her shoulder. “I’ll be home at ten.”

“See you, Gran,” says Mito.

“Later,” says Killua.

One by one, the cases are ruled out by photos or location of death. The sun sinks lower, illuminating swaths of dust cut by the blinds.

And then he finds her, in the front row of a group shot, participating in a beauty pageant just a few months prior to her death.

Leela Park.

Killua blinks. He’s never seen her smile before.

She has dimples.

He beckons Mito over, and for a long moment they stare at the picture. There’s a sash over her shoulder, and her dress is wide. Her glittery eyeshadow catches the stage lights, and her hands are clasped tightly with the women to either side of her.

She looks… happy. For the first time, Killua feels sick not for the sake of his sister’s safety, but for her.

She was happy, and then she was dead.

Leela worked as an airline hostess, enjoyed hiking, and was survived by a sister. The obituary offers nothing about the circumstances of her death aside from a date fourteen years ago.

He grips his knees.

Mito puts a hand over his. “Why don’t we start with her sister,” she offers, and he nods tightly.

They find her address through social media and a phonebook.

She lives down in the city.

Killua worries a hangnail enough it bleeds.


	4. Chapter 4

The drive down is quiet. After he’s explained all he knows and his efforts so far, he has nothing to do but stare out the window. Mito gives up on making conversation when he stops replying with anything more than grunts.

If Leela’s sister is living out of range, then the ghost must be hosted by someone else. He has to find out who she was connected to—difficult, if they weren’t a direct relative—and perform an exorcism. Gon and Alluka will be back in Quarterway by Monday night, and it’s already Saturday evening.

He and Mito won’t get to the townhouse until past midnight, and then he’ll _have_ to sleep. He can hardly keep his eyes open, even when he’s exploiting every trick Illumi ever taught him. Mito slaps his shoulder when he sparks the insides of his wrists.

He texts to ask Gon what they’re up to. He replies with a picture of Alluka across from him at a picnic table beside the boardwalk. She’s blurry from waving, and the sun sets behind her.

Killua bites his thumb. Judging by the waterfront buildings in the background, they’re only a few blocks away from Mildred Park’s brownstone.

“Gon and Alluka are in the area,” he says, breaking the silence as they exit off the highway.

“What’s our lie if they find us?” asks Mito.

“That we came down to surprise them,” says Killua. She nods.

Traffic in the city is stop and go. He fidgets impatiently as they inch along, through construction and double-decker buses shrink wrapped with advertisements for upcoming movies. Wires hang between the buildings, and metal street lamps lean, their bases disrupted by the roots of overgrown boulevard trees.

By the time they’re standing on her front step, he feels sick. Maybe the morels haven’t quite worn off yet. Maybe Gon and Alluka being so close make him antsy.

Mito knocks, and there’s a long pause. He knocks again. Mito flicks his ear and hushes for him to be patient. They sing the alphabet.

Nothing.

Mito knocks again, more forcefully, and the stairs inside rattle.

“How serene,” he says.

“Little shit.”

He chuckles.

The deadbolt clicks, and he straightens, collecting himself.

The door hardly opens a crack.

The woman behind it is in her mid forties and wears a pink and white sweater with paw prints patterned in the stripes. The one eye they can see, so dark brown it’s nearly black, holds nothing but suspicion. Killua squeezes his thumbs.

“I don’t want to waste your time,” she says. “I’ve already mailed in an early ballot.”

“Oh, it’s not about that,” says Killua. “Are you Mildred Park?”

She nods.

He gives a cool little mock salute. “Can we ask you some questions about your sister?”

Her eye widens, and the crack narrows. “I beg your pardon?”

Mito raises a hand over Killua’s chest before he can continue. “We’re conducting an investigation and believe she may be related.”

“An investigation?”

“Yes,” says Mito, nodding dutifully. “Unfortunately, we aren’t at liberty to discuss specifics at this time.” She gives him a pointed “calm down” look.

He flashes the licence in his pocket.

Mildred stares at it for a long time. He can’t see enough of her face to read it well, but her aura screams suspicion. When her gaze turns to him, it tears through like a gale. He stiffens to keep from taking a step backwards.

She’s like those candies his sisters have Leorio send from overseas. Sweet on the outside, like Nanika enjoys, but sour at their core, which Alluka swaps in for.

She scoffs and shakes her head. He braces himself for her to shut them out, but instead she drifts away and leaves the door to swing open in invitation. He moves inside. Mito follows behind him.

“Sorry about all the mess,” sighs Mildred.

Killua’s house was messier a second after the keys were dropped into his palm. Maybe she’s talking about the low, practical heel slightly crooked on the rack, or the nearly imperceptible chip on the fish tank. He touches it as he walks past and feels a little guilty for smudging the glass.

The ceiling is high, and the entrance opens into a crisp living room. Stuffed bookshelves line the off-white walls, and the couches are arranged around an electric fireplace, with black instrument cases on the hearth. But mostly, it’s empty. Like she doesn’t quite know how to fill the space.

Mildred insists they sit and goes to put on the kettle.

The long couch is comfortable, if not especially cozy. Killua pulls his feet up and Mito slaps his leg. “Be professional,” she hisses as he sullenly drops them.

“No caffeine this time of night?” asks Mildred from the adjacent kitchen.

“No, thank you,” says Mito.

“I’d love some,” says Killua. The hardwood floor is cold. He wishes he’d picked warmer socks.

Mildred waits for the kettle to boil before bringing out three teacups on a floral tray. Killua eagerly accepts his, but Mito only takes hers to be polite. Mildred ignores her cup altogether.

She sits in the orange upholstered armchair and clasps her hands with finality. “So. What have you found.”

He and Mito share a look. “We can’t disclose that at this time. We just wanted to talk with you,” says Mito.

Mildred tilts her head. She opens her mouth like she intends to argue.

“We understand this may be difficult for you,” interrupts Mito. “But—”

“No, no, ask away,” says Mildred, crossing her arms and sinking back into the cushions. Killua bites the inside of his cheek as Mito pulls a notebook from her purse. She mouths “amateur” at him when he furrows his brow.

Mildred watches on with passive indifference.

“In the months preceding your sister’s death, who was she spending her time with?” asks Mito.

Mildred bobs her head, taking a moment to think. “Hard to say. She flew all over for work. Had friends from everywhere. Was always on the phone.”

“Mm,” says Mito, refolding her legs. “Was she close to anyone in Quarterway?”

Mildred spits a laugh. “No, no, she got out soon as her school was done. Even finished a semester early.” She smiles, perhaps fondly, at her teacup. “I was all she had left there, really. Never went into town.”

“No old school friends? Extended family?”

Mildred shakes her head. “When we were young, she wanted to be an actor. We didn’t have the money to live here, where all the work is,” she says, gesturing around, as though at the city itself. “Quarterway was as close as we could afford. Mom and Dad sent us out alone.”

“Just the two of you?” asks Mito, trying to hide her skepticism. Killua raises an eyebrow at her.

Mildred nods.

“So no connections in Quarterway, really?”

Mildred wrinkles her nose. “Nah. She was always a bit of a snob about the place.” She goes quiet, gaze cast through the window to the street. He follows her line of sight to the speckling of pedestrians walking by. “Not one to talk though, am I really. I moved too, as soon as work let me.”

Mito taps her pen on the paper.

The grandfather clock in the corner ticks obnoxiously loudly.

Killua clears his throat. “To the best of your knowledge, what was the cause of your sister’s death?”

“Markus did it,” says Mildred, straight and matter-of-fact. Like it's obvious. “I did a radio interview at the time after the police brushed me off.”

Killua gabs his mouth, trying and failing to think of something intelligent to say to that. “Sorry?”

“Why do you think Markus killed her?” asks Mito, pen already flying.

Mildred shrugs and shakes her head. “I don’t know if _he_ killed her—he was always a bit of a wallflower—but getting wrapped up with him was what did it. No doubt.”

She scribbles furiously. “What was her relation to Markus?”

Mildred laughs, but it’s harsh. Killua scratches a nail against the intricate flowers painted onto his cup and averts his eyes. She _radiates_ hatred.

“He wanted arm candy and she wanted more than what we came from. Left me in her dust for his fancy friends,” she says. And then she stops cold, hands gripping the arm rests.

Killua looks up, wondering if that’s it.

Mildred’s stare is distant. She shakes her head, and the anger seems to lift. “Sorry,” she says, quieter, sinking back into the chair. “They were happy, when there was money. And when there wasn't money anymore, she turned up dead.”

Killua swallows hard.

“Did they live together?” asks Mito.

“Not really. She had her own apartment, but they both spent an awful lot of time up in Quarterway. Had a little vacation house there they’d stay at instead of my place. Spent the weekends.”

Something about the faraway look on her face tells him they’re almost out of time.

He and Mito share a look. This was more than either of them were expecting.

“Sorry—what was her official cause of death?” he asks.

“Heart attack.” Mildred laughs ruefully, but it dies halfway through. “She didn't have any history of health problems.”

“And how did Markus make his money?” asks Mito.

Mildred shakes her head. “That man was up to no good. He was a bank manager, you know.”

Killua tilts his head. “Yes…?”

Mildred puts her hands on her knees and leans forward. “How’s a bank teller afford two apartments in the city and a beach house. Bought Leela a new car just before she died, fancy red thing. New dresses all the time. Vacations. Whatever she wanted.”

“And he—his last name?”

“Miles.”

“And where is he now?”

Mildred scoffs. “Up and disappeared right after she died. Don’t you think that’s a wee suspicious?”

It’s the venom with which she says it that stuns him and Mito into silence. They stare openly at her, uncomfortable and curious in equal measure.

Mildred sighs, as though she’s almost disappointed in them, and sits back. “I don’t know how, I don’t know why, but mark my words, he’s the reason she’s dead.” Her nose wrinkles. “Selfish bastard.”

  
  
***  
  


They don’t stay long after that. Just enough for Mito to get her contact information and for him to down his cup in one go.

They’re halfway to the car when he spots them. He grabs Mito’s arm. She stumbles.

Gon and Alluka are still oblivious. His sister walks with an exaggerated gait as she tells a story, and Gon wipes a tear from his eye, laughing.

He moves to scoop Mito up, and Gon stops dead in his tracks.

“Shit,” he hisses.

“Hands off,” snaps Mito. “Oh wait. Fuck.”

“HEY KILLUA,” says Gon, calmly. A flock of birds take off, and he’s standing in front of them, jacket flapping, before Killua has time to flinch. “The fuck are you doing out of bed?”

“Language.”

“Right, sorry Aunt Mito,” says Gon. He sticks his hands on his hips and goes back to scowling at Killua. “Miss us already?”

He drags a hand down his face. He’s too tired to lie convincingly, so if Gon wants to do all the work, he’ll let him. “Sure.”

Gon huffs and straightens. Alluka finally catches up, and greets him with a friendly jab in the ribs. “Hey dumbass.”

“Asshole.”

She giggles, self-satisfied. “Yeah.”

He moves to tackle her.

“We thought dinner together would be nice,” says Mito, squeezing Killua’s shoulder.

“He’ll just barf it up,” says Alluka, raising her chin and smiling at him.

“I’m fine,” he grits out.

“Have you even slept?” asks Gon, grabbing Killua’s face. He pulls his thumbs down his cheeks, stretching his eyes, and Killua squirms. He lets go.

“Yeah, a little,” he lies. “I thought—I mean, I still don’t want to stay here overnight, but I didn’t… I just thought this would be nice, but if you guys are—”

Alluka waves her hands and throws on a smile. “No no, we’re happy to see you, just…”

The two of them stare at him, and then share a look he does _not_ fucking appreciate.

They’ve been talking.

About him.

It’s Mito they look to next. She shakes her head.

He wants to disappear. He wants to _scream._

Gon puts a hand on his forehead. The other cups his neck to keep him still. He crosses his arms self-consciously.

“He needed to get out of the house,” says Mito.

Gon drops his hand. Alluka kicks her toe on the pavement.

“The plan was pizza, right?” asks Mito. It’s not really a question.

  
  
***  
  


His appetite still isn’t back, but he does his best to finish at least two slices, even though it makes him sick.

The pizzaria is small. They sit at a table in the middle of the fray, underneath a light like a search beam, crammed in by tables full of shouting and movement. Not that theirs is much better. As though to compensate for his inability to maintain enthusiasm, Gon and Alluka recount their museum visit with riotous exuberance.

God he wants to fucking sleep.

Just as he’s considering whether it would be rude to steal the sunglasses in Alluka’s pocket and hole up in the bathroom until it’s time to go, Gon calls for the check, and a box, so they can take a few slices back to the hotel for Nanika. Killua will repay him with a kiss later.

The air outside is crisp, and the sun has soundly set. Mito and Alluka walk a dozen paces ahead, taking pictures of each other posed against the glowing storefronts. Gon keeps a hand around his waist. Killua suspects it’s out of fear he’s going to faint. It’s the same fear that keeps Killua from pushing him off.

“Would you like us to come home, dearheart,” asks Gon.

The term of endearment throws him through a loop for a moment, and he has to quash down the knee jerk reaction to crack a joke. “No,” he says, leaning into his side. “I’m fine.”

“Mm,” says Gon. He kisses the top of Killua’s curls. “My extra pajamas are in the left drawer under the bed.”

“Mito hasn’t invited me to stay the night,” he says.

Gon huffs. “Aunt Mito,” he says, raising his voice. “Can Killua stay in my room tonight?”

He slaps his arm.

“Of course,” she says, shaking her head. “Wait, did you think I was going to leave you alone?”

Gon smiles at him, cheeky and bright.

  
  
***  
  


Killua does his research on the long car ride. They won’t even be _back_ for another hour, and he’ll still have to have a warm shower and watch something familiar to calm himself down enough to even dream of sleep.

At least he has an idea of what changed, now. Leela wanted to be an actor, never made it, and now a popular show is being filmed in her old home. From everything he’s read, an unfulfilled dream could be strong enough to tie down a ghost.

“Leela’s undertaker was pretty religious,” he says, scrolling through the rarely updated church website.

“You’d have to be, doing that job, I guess,” says Mito, leaning to peer at his phone. 

“Eyes on the—Mito, road!” The highway into Quarterway is nearly abandoned at this time of night, but his nerves can’t take much more.

“Fine,” she says, thumping back into her seat. “What’s it say.”

“Nothing, just a picture of him singing in the choir.”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” she says, tapping the clock.

“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” he breathes, realizing he’s going to have to wake up at an ungodly hour.

Mito sucks in a breath and bites her lip with anticipation.

He waits.

Apparently she needs an invitation. “What?”

“I just—how are we going to track down who she knew if her friends lived all over the world?”

“It doesn’t matter,” says Killua. Arms and legs crossed, he can’t fight off the chill her shoddy heating is chipping against. “Whoever her host is, they have to live near the sightings.” 

  
  
***  
  


Gon’s bed smells like salt and pine, and the tight room makes him feel burrowed. That, combined with his usual routine, is enough to buy him a couple hours of actual sleep before he’s woken by the birds.

Mito’s already up, sipping coffee at the kitchen table. He pours a mug for himself.

“So this Markus guy,” says Mito, tapping a pen on the laptop screen. “I can’t find anything on him except a picture of him holding up a fish.”

Killua takes a sip. Needs sugar. “You think he actually did it?”

Mito shrugs. “Mildred didn’t seem to have a good idea of the people her sister was hanging around. He’s the only place to start.”

He can’t argue with that.

He calls his best contact for underworld information and is greeted by a full answering machine. Not that he was really expecting anything else.

He steals Gon’s biggest, warmest sweater in lieu of wearing his own jacket. It’s cozier, and the orange—yes, _oh yes,_ she made _all six of them matching sweaters_ —really brings out the sallow green undertone to his cheeks.

Mito tries to get him back into the mystery solving spirit as they walk down to the church, but his heart just isn’t in speculating on the motives of a man they’ve yet to learn anything concrete about.

His phone rings as they’re waiting on the stone steps. “Did he actually call me back,” says Killua, almost to himself.

“Put him on speaker,” says Mito as he picks up.

“What do you need?” asks Kurapika.

He beams. It’s been too long.

“A Markus Miles disappeared out here about fourteen years ago after his girlfriend Leela Park died, and we think he had connections. Worked as a bank teller. I have a picture I can send you. Do you think you could dig anything up about him, or who Leela knew?”

“I’ll try. Is that all?”

“Um, how are—”

“Busy.” Kurapika hangs up. He whistles. It’s the longest conversation they’ve had in months.

“Think he’ll find something?” asks Mito. He shrugs.

  
  
***  
  


The undertaker has puffy red cheeks and a striped bowtie. They stop him right before the doors. His wife goes on ahead, with a wary look over her shoulder as she passes inside.

“Can we ask you some questions regarding an ongoing investigation?” asks Killua, hands in his pockets, as soon as it slams closed.

The undertaker doesn’t meet his eyes. “An investigation?”

“Into the death of Leela Park,” says Mito.

“Leela—I can’t say I recall—”

“She died fourteen years ago,” says Killua, scrolling through the obituary on his phone. “It would’ve been under your jurisdiction at the time.”

“That was such a long time ago—I really must—”

“Leela’s cause of death was reported as a heart attack, but her sister—”

“Oh, that nut,” says the undertaker, rolling his eyes.

Mito stiffens. Killua frowns and pulls out his license in a smooth motion, tapping it with a nail. The undertaker’s eyes bulge, and he squirms.

“We’d appreciate you show the family some respect,” says Killua.

The undertaker stuffs his hands in his pockets and looks at his shoes like a scolded child. “Well, I don’t know what to tell you. It was a heart attack.”

Mito raises her hand. “But she had no history of—”

The undertaker throws his arms wide. “I don’t know what to tell you! Sometimes, people just die. My condolences to the family, but I refuse to partake in some—some conspiracy. Now, can I _go._ ” He drops his arms. “Please.”

Mito looks to Killua.

He narrows his eyes at the man, pinning him down like a bug. The undertaker gulps, red and shaking.

“Okay. Fine.”

He marches off like a shot rubber band. Killua glares at the back of his head until he’s through the heavy wooden door.

She wrings her wrists. “Do you think he was—”

Killua bites his thumb. “Lying? Absolutely.”

“Interview next?”

“I guess.”

  
  
***  
  


“Killua!” says Uncle. He wears sunglasses in his house, too? “What’s up, bud?”

“Um,” says Killua, holding up his hands defensively as his shoulder is clapped.

Mito, once again, saves him. “Do you keep records of old interviews?”

“Of course,” says Uncle. He winks at Killua and pokes his ribs. “Your mom want a copy?”

“Oh, wow, no, definitely not,” he laughs, rubbing the back of his neck.

“ _Can_ I have a copy?” asks Mito, leaning in.

Uncle smiles. “‘Course, Miss Freecs. But what’re you two actually here for?”

  
  
***  
  


Killua, Uncle, and Mito go down to the studio to pick up the tape.

Killua peeks into the storage room and groans inwardly. Metal shelves hold dozens and dozens of battered filing boxes.

“Sorry about the mess back there,” shouts Uncle from the next room, where he’s booting up the main computer. Killua pulls one of the boxes down from the shelves. “I’ve never really bothered to sort them.”

He opens up the lid. Inside are hundreds of cassette tapes. “How are they ordered?” he asks.

Uncle makes a hissing sound. Killua rests his forehead against the cool corner post of the shelf and closes his eyes, bracing for the worst.

“They—well—I used to order them by date,” he says. “Then at some point I thought I’d swap to alphabetical, but I lost motivation halfway through, so…”

Killua sighs with a woosh.

“And then we started digitizing them, and it all got real screwy.”

“So they aren’t ordered,” Killua clarifies.

“Not at all,” says Uncle.

Awesome.

They are, at the very least, labelled. He sets the box on the ground and starts taking the tapes out, one by one, searching for Mildred’s name.

“We may have digitized it though. Just give the computer a second to search.”

“‘Kay,” he says, not stopping.

Mito slips in through the door. She looks as exhausted by the news as he feels.

“Better than microfilm,” she says.

He snorts.

The interview isn’t digitized, because why would it be. They skim through the boxes as fast as they can, marking what they’ve already checked with sticky notes.

“Killua,” says Mito, two hours in. Uncle has long gone home, trusting her with the keys.

“Mm?”

“You said you were afraid of the ghost hurting them.”

“Yeah,” he says. She pauses her work, scooting where she’s sitting cross-legged to face him. He keeps his head bowed and his hands sorting. Maybe she’ll take the fucking hint.

“Has it tried to hurt _you?_ ”

“No.”

“So why do you think it’s going to hurt them?”

His hands slow, like he’s a dying wind-up doll.

“How long have you been seeing it for?”

“Months,” he says. “About as long as the film shoot.”

Mito leans towards him and uses the patient, gentle voice he’s seen her wield against stray cats stuck between the walls of brick buildings. “We’re not going to finish before they get back.”

“I know that!” he shouts, finally looking up. Mito flinches back, an arm raised over her chest. His throat constricts. He looks away, fighting back tears. “Sorry.”

“Killua, were you planning on asking me for help?”

He goes back to sorting.

So does she, with a sigh. “Let’s just get as much done as we can, alright?”

“Yeah.”

  
  
***  
  


“Is… now a bad time?” asks Vira, peering over Mito’s shoulder.

Killua looks up from the Association documents he’s crawling through for any information on the crime organizations in the area. The database is hosted on an old system, operated through a command line. He should’ve paid more attention during Milluki’s lessons.

“No, no,” says Mito, leading her into the kitchen. “We could use a breath of fresh air.”

“I’ve never been called a breath of fresh air before,” says Vira.

Killua grinds a knuckle into his temple.

They had to give up on the tapes; there were too many to get through them all in time. And now he’s running thin on leads, with Gon and Alluka due back tomorrow. It’s already late in the afternoon.

He’s fucked, basically.

Mito’s going to tell him.

“Does she have to be here,” he asks, going back to the black terminal and flashing caret.

“I’m fresh air, Killua,” says Vira, hanging on the door frame. He grunts. “God, who died?”

He can’t do this today.

“Leela Park,” he quips. Mito glares at him. He suppresses an eyeroll.

Vira blinks, straightening up. “Mildred’s sister?”

His hands freeze. The clacking of Mito taking out the tea set stills.

“Um, yeah,” she says, out of Killua’s sight. “You know her?”

“Mildred was Jane’s high school music teacher,” says Vira, mostly to her, smiling proudly that she knows something they don’t.

Killua shakes his head to clear it. “Wait, seriously?”

“Why would I lie about who Jane had for a music teacher?” she barks at him.

“Yeah,” says Killua.

“Really though, you look like shit,” says Vira, already losing interest in their flavour-of-the-week hijinks.

“We didn’t find anything about that when we searched her up,” says Mito.

Vira shrugs a shoulder, finally leaving the doorway to sit down at the table. Killua gets up and follows. “I have a clipping at home of her and Jane together in the paper.”

“Seriously?” he asks.

“Again, I don’t care enough to lie,” says Vira, putting the three tea cups Mito set down at their places. “Why do you guys give a shit?”

“We’re trying to find out who Leela was close to when she died,” says Killua. 

“Well, have fun,” she says, trying to balance her cup on its edge. “And be careful. Don’t go pissing everyone off again.”

Mito raises her eyebrow in question. Vira sighs longingly at the kettle and lets her shoulders drop.

“Mildred did some interview after it happened accusing Olga of like, covering up how she died or something,” she says. “Book club went on hiatus for months.”

“Who’s Olga?” asks Killua.

“She found her,” says Vira. “Owns the cute little store where Alluka got those earrings.”

“The hearts?” asks Mito.

“When you have a pair of earrings shaped like anatomically correct hearts they’re the default pair in conversation.”

Mito looks to him.

  
  
***  
  


He grabs his jacket and flies out the door, Mito on his heels.

“Killua, slow down,” she calls.

He vaults over a low brick wall. “I want to catch her before she closes,” he says, before jumping to the rooftops. Mito will find her own way.

There’s something on the tape. Something Olga didn’t want anyone to know. Something she’s trying to hide.

It’s the kind of break he’s been hoping for this whole time.

Her shop sells candles and wicker baskets and porcelain figurines that simultaneously horrify and fascinate. He bursts through the door, hardly winded. Everything’s close in Quarterway.

There’s are only two shoppers left.

One waves at him brightly.

“Alex,” he says, accepting a handshake as greeting. Alex’s hand is square and freckled.

“Are you feeling better?” he asks, standing in a way Killua can only describe as “intentionally confident.”

He raises an eyebrow. She told him? “Yeah. Guess I just needed a quiet weekend.”

“Right,” says Alex, nodding and smiling over-eagerly. “I think she had fun anyway. Not—” he adds quickly, “—that it’s a good thing you didn’t go, or anything, I just mean… yeah.” 

Killua presses his lips together, trying to maintain a fast straining smile.

He looks to the counter. Olga, speaking in a way that accents her gap teeth, is bagging up some garden gnomes for an equally old lady.

Small talk.

He can do it.

“What are you here for,” he asks.

Alex waves his hands. “Just looking, I guess,” he says, picking up the nearest novelty hand bell. He shrugs. “It’s uh, a cool little shop, y’know?”

Alright fuck that he’s bored. “She likes scarves.”

Alex’s eyes widen. “Oh, she, I wasn’t, we’re just—”

“Jesus, could you—just talk to her,” says Killua. The old woman is leaving. “I have to go. Oh, and fire resistant gloves. Make sure they’re good or she’ll get burns. And those little strawberry daiquiri candies.”

“Um, right,” says Alex. “Thanks. Burns?”

“Don’t thank me just.” He waves his hands, wishing there was a way to throw a rock at the problem rather than continue stumbling through it verbally. “Talk to her.”

Mito bursts through the door, panting hard.

“Alex,” she says, as the bell rings.

“Miss Mito,” says Alex, visibly collecting himself as he makes his escape. “Nice to see you.”

“You as well,” she says, as he leaves with a quick, awkward nod. She turns to Killua. “Everything alright?”

“Are they dating?” he asks.

She snorts. He wonders what was funny.

“How can I help?” interrupts Olga. The old woman passes by.

“Would you mind answering a few questions for an ongoing investigation?” asks Killua, pulling out his license, as soon as she’s out the door.

Olga’s eyes widen. “...Of course. Just about to close anyway.” She puts a book beside the register under the counter. “Why don’t you two come upstairs for some tea.”

Tea.

Lovely.

They walk up the narrow, curved staircase in the corner to Olga’s apartment. Mito pauses on the top step, forcing them both to take stock.

It’s a cluttered mess of boxes and furniture in disrepair. Dog beds line narrow walkways between the balanced piles. Tie dye sheets hang from the ceiling, billowing in the breeze of the shitty fan in the corner that clugs away, turning with slow, chunky motions.

There’s only one window, and it’s small, at the far wall, and half covered by broken blinds. Dying african violets in unique clay pots swallow an upright piano, including the keyboard and bench. By a wall, three coffee tables have been stacked on top of each other to make shelves, overflowing with newspapers. Killua wonders how the floor hasn’t collapsed.

“We’re investigating the death of Leela Park,” says Mito, as Killua taps a chipped bobblehead on the nearest shelf. It’s Netero. Or at least, it’s an attempt at Netero.

“Oh,” says Olga, rubbing the back of her neck. She goes to turn on the kettle. They follow, weaving through along the path. Dirty plates are piled in the sink. “You two go find a seat.”

She says it like they have options—all there is is a fur-covered, stained couch across from a rocking chair, with one of its three cushions covered in antique photo albums.

It takes Olga a few minutes to wash them all mugs, which gives him and Mito time to sink into the couch. He would almost swear it was alive. A distant cousin of Jarvis, perhaps.

“You’re going to have to help me up later,” Mito whispers, letting herself flop back into the mildewy embrace.

“I wasn’t trained for this,” he whispers back, throwing faux fear into his voice. She giggles.

Olga brings the mugs out one by one. They’re full to the brim, and she shuffles slowly, trying to keep the liquid steady. Some jumps over the edge. A lethargic dog he’d previously assumed was a coat tossed on the ground trods over to lick the carpet, and he tries to hide his disgust.

Finally, she sits down.

He clears his throat. “We were wondering if—”

“You’re that new boy in town, aren’t you?” says Olga, squinting. 

He blushes as she picks him apart like he’s made of scraps. Her upper lip twitches as her eyes drag over his hair to rest on his hands. He curls them involuntarily and looks away, her gaze hot on his cheek.

“Uh, yeah. We were—” 

“You were part of that mission back in NGL.” It’s spoken like an accusation. He digs his nails into his palms.

“That’s me. Leela had no history of—”

“A Zoldyck, right?”

He snaps his mouth closed so quickly his teeth snap.

Zoldyck, yes. But not “a Zoldyck.”

Mito shuffles in her seat as he breathes out slowly. “That has nothing to do with this conversation,” she says.

“Well, just odd, isn’t it,” says Olga, smile cheeky. “How’s the other side of the fence?”

There’s blood slipping through his clenched fingers. He tries to wipe it off on his jeans without her noticing. “Greener,” he says, monotone.

Mito leans forward, elbows on her knees. “Leela had no history of heart problems,” she says, overly cheery in a way he suspects Olga can’t tell isn’t genuinely friendly. He turns his face. If she won’t speak to _him,_ that’s fine. “We’ve gone to the undertaker and he isn’t talking, so we were wondering if you’d noticed anything unusual about her body.”

“Heart attack.” Olga snorts. The hound at her feet yawns. “Funny sense of humour, ain’t it?”

“Why?” asks Mito.

Olga’s eyes go distant. She rubs her hands together. His hands sting. “I think we’ve all had just about enough of Leela,” she says. “You two should let it go.”

“Her family deserves closure,” says Mito.

Olga scoffs. “They already have closure. You two are just stirring everything back up.” Her hands are pressed flat together, stacked like pancakes. “I’m guessing Mildred told you about me?”

“Vira, actually,” says Killua.

“Ah. Of course.” She rolls her eyes. Rage pounds through his chest, and he schools it onto a leash.

Who the fuck does she think she is.

“Well, I don’t claim to know more than a professional undertaker,” she says, throwing up her hands.

“A proper investigation was never conducted,” says Killua, tone stern. “Consider this a witness interview.”

“You’re not a cop.”

“I’m a Hunter.”

“Is that a threat, Zoldyck?” she hisses.

He flinches back as though slapped.

There’s _hatred_ in her eyes.

That’s not new. People have looked at him like that before—they’ve had every right to. It’s just… been awhile.

“Was there anything unusual about the scene?” asks Mito. Still placating. Part of Killua wants for her to scream, as counterintuitive as it would be.

Olga stares at him a moment longer before rocking back.

“She was just lying there,” she says, gesturing broadly. “Bruno sniffed her out and started barking.”

“Bruno?”

“My dog.”

Mito points to the hound.

“This is Bruno II.”

“Of course,” says Mito. She’s writing. That’s good. He doesn’t have to pay attention too closely. He can focus on keeping the blood seeping from his palms from getting into the upholstery. “Where was she on the beach?”

“In the waves,” says Olga, reaching for her mug. Her brow furrows as she raises it to her lips, sucking off the top, tense to keep the rocking chair steady.

Killua looks to his own. The thought of drinking it makes him sick.

“She hadn’t drifted?”

“She hadn’t been dead long. Look, you two should just—”

“Mm,” he interupts. Mito shoots him a side-eyed warning. He bunches the fabric of his pants at the knees. “Let’s stop wasting time. Why aren’t you telling us what you know?”

Mito taps her foot against—oh, he forgot to put on socks—his beneath the coffee table, where Olga can’t see it. Her slurping of the shit tea stops.

And she stares at him.

Hard.

Like she can cut through down to the sour truth of him.

“What reason do I have to tell you what I know?” she says, voice rising.

“Mildred deserves the truth,” he says.

“And why do you care?” she says, shaking her head, like she can’t believe him.

“Because Mildred does.”

“Bull _shit,_ ” she spits. 

He unfolds his legs and leans forward, elbows on his knees. Blood drips from his hands onto the table in round splatters. “I’m curious, and I’m selfish, and I’m solving a puzzle for fun.”

“Killua,” says Mito, putting a hand on his back.

“Can’t always get what you want,” says Olga.

“That’s enough,” says Mito. She grabs his shoulder and lifts a hand for Olga to stop.

“The hell’s that supposed to mean?” he hisses.

“You kill—what. Hundreds? Thousands? And then you get to retire out here, and now you care about _one_ woman.” Olga puts her mug down harshly. “Making Mildred feel a little better doesn’t make up for all you did.”

And the pieces fall into place. The whir of the fan and the sting on his palms and the smell of the tea are suddenly closer and sharper and far, far too much as his mind races and his body screams. He feels very, very stupid. 

And very, very alone.

“I didn’t want to hurt anyone,” he breathes. A tear slips off his chin, and he rubs the next few away before realizing he’s streaking blood across his cheeks. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” says Olga.

“I was a kid.”

“Did that make your victims less dead?” she asks, speaking with a saccharine tone meant for pets.

“If I hadn’t, he would have—”

“You can’t undo it,” says Olga, lips curled back.

**“Enough.”** Mito’s rubbing circles on his back. Her attention narrows on Olga with blinding ferocity, and Killua is left with his mouth agape, fumbling to regain his mental footing. Shit. Shit shit _shit._ “You’re going to tell us what you know, or tomorrow you’re going to find yourself in an Association interrogation room.”

“You don’t know what’s best for Quarterway,” says Olga. For the first time, there’s vulnerability in the shake of her pointing finger. “I’m protecting my people.”

“What are you not telling us,” says Mito, voice like granite.

He wants to make her stop. He wants to excuse them, to grab her wrist and run. Instead he sits useless, eyes glazed and knees so weak he fears standing would snap them.

“You two are going to wake it up,” says Olga, throwing open her arms violently. The rocking chair creaks as she leans forward. Killua leans back, breathing shallow and strained. “I’ve got no interest in upsetting whatever she upset, and if you two were smart, you’d mind your own and save us another death.”

Did he know all along?

“Wake what?” demands Mito.

The truth he’s been running from swells up his throat and gets snagged on his tongue.

“Whatever killed her.”

He stares at the blood on his hands.

Olga’s resolve crumbles.

“Leela’s heart was clean ripped outta her chest, lying in the sand ten paces away.” She tugs at her hair. “Whatever did that ain’t human, and it ain’t interested in being disturbed.”

  
  
***  
  


He walks ahead of Mito. She jogs to catch his arm.

“Nevermind. This was stupid. We should let it go,” he says, racing to get the words out. He has to put distance between her and himself before he’s sobbing a confession that won’t help anyone.

A few people strolling through the streets before supper have slowed, watching them.

“What are you talking about?” asks Mito, tugging him to a stop. “Whatever did that could still be around.” She points towards the hills. “Your sister lives in that house.”

He hides his face in his shaking hands. “Mito, I promise everyone is safe. Just go away.”

“What about Mildred?” asks Mito, aghast. She tugs on his sleeve, urging him to drop his hands. “What’s gotten into you, huh?”

He squeezes his fingers together so no light can get in.

She shakes his arm.

How many Mildreds are there. How many of them are still waiting for closure. How many, every day, think of what they lost.

And he thought he could just move on, like nothing happened. Just decide one day to do his best to be a good person and ignore the past, like feeling guilty was all the payment he owed.

“Hey,” says Mito, softer. He stands firm when she tries to pull him into a hug. “Hey, sweetheart. Killua. Don’t listen to her.” She brushes back his bangs, as though to tuck them behind his ear. “You’re amazing. Everyone who knows you knows that.”

He killed Leela Park.

Killua exhales, uneven and tight at the back of his throat. “Just leave me alone.”

And he vanishes.


	5. Chapter 5

When the plate shattered and he frowned at the pieces with slow, resigned confusion, Mito knew something was wrong beyond food poisoning.

He got like that, sometimes. Sad, and very far away.

The remedy, most often, was to sit with him. Quiet company and an evening spent playing cards would unfurl him back into his regular self. Occasionally, it was space, and time alone in the gardens, that brought him home.

She should’ve known that wasn’t going to be enough when it went on for so long. She should’ve known that wasn’t going to be enough when they gave up on digging through the tapes and his expression crumpled, absolutely defeated. But she knows now, and she’s going to do everything she can.

It isn’t the first time she’s lost a son.

  
  
***  
  


Abe’s needles clink from the living room as she dries the plates Gon is mindlessly scrubbing. Alluka sits on the counter, blocking the cabinets.

“If her heart really _was_ ripped out, it was definitely him,” says Alluka. She sticks a thumb to her chest, almost proudly. “That’s an us thing. Leela would’ve been an easy target, and she was in an isolated area. Kind of perfect for training purposes, honestly.”

Training purposes.

When Gon was that age, he had a stool, and they’d brush their teeth while making goofy faces at each other in the mirror.

Mito leans back against the counter. Alluka puts a hand on her shoulder, and she covers it. “He would’ve been five,” she says.

“Almost,” says Alluka.

“Does everyone have their phone off silent?” says Gon, pushing the sleeves of his sweater back up. His brow is scrunched. Mito can’t tell if he’s been listening to the conversation or stuck in his own bubble. “Just in case he texts.”

“I’ll go check mine,” says Alluka.

  
  
***  
  


Gon is fifteen. It’s been weeks since he chose to sleep inside, as opposed to out in the woods. Mito catches him grabbing bundles of salt for fire-cooked stew, and fish slowly fill up a row in the freezer. Neighbors let her know he’s been by to help pick cherries before they fall and rot, or dig up stumps to make room for a bench.

When he’s home, rushing to finish his school assignments just well enough to pass, he answers her questions with simple yeses and nos. Yes, he’s making sure to put out all his fires. Yes, he’s feeling alright. No, he won’t miss Abe’s birthday party. It’s a half-assed disappearance, but she trusts in patience and leaves fresh changes of clothes on his windowsill whenever she notices the drawers have gone untouched.

Mito considers reading the journal she’s been encouraging him to keep, once, taking it out of his desk and sitting down with it at the kitchen table. It feels wrong, though, to spy like that. She puts it back without cracking the cover.

But as much as she doesn’t want to pry herself into whatever he’s going through, he’s becoming more and more distant. Gon pushes her away by speaking in stacks of lies so deep she isn’t even sure _he_ knows their purpose. She only figures it out when small details start to misalign. Don’t worry Aunt Mito, I had chicken dinner with that old stuffy couple, and next week it was salmon, and then she runs into the Williams at the market and pieces together that dinner didn’t happen at all, so he must have been absolutely alone for at least a four days stretch.

It’s at Abe’s party when Mito finally pulls him aside into the washroom hallway of the boisterous pub. Gon leans against the wall between seascape paintings, eyes trained on the floor, rocking out of time with the music.

“Sweetheart,” she says, holding his arm. “I’m worried about you.”

Gon shrugs a shoulder. “It’s okay,” he says. It’s like his voice has been wrung out and left to dry.

“It’s not. We have to talk about this, Gon.”

He covers his face and shakes his head while mumbling something she doesn’t catch.

“You’re not yourself,” she says, shaking him gently. “I just want to see you happy.”

And then, so fast she barely catches the heartbroken expression on his face, he lunges to pull her into a hug. For a moment, she stands rigid and useless, before holding him back. A man squeezes past them with a polite “oh don’t mind me Miss Freecs.”

They go outside and talk, until long after the sun has set, on an empty dock. Mostly, she listens, as Gon kartwheels from one subject to the next. Kite and Killua and Ging and the arm he’s lost twice that sometimes rages with phantom pain and sometimes doesn’t feel there at all. She learns of Neferpitou, and of waking up in hospital with a ventilator down his throat, and of what she can only describe as a suicide attempt. And all she can do is hold him, hold him, hold him, all through the night spent curled in her bed. But at least he’s there, and she’s there, and Abe, who wanders up to say goodnight and ends up sleeping on his other side, is there too.

  
  
***  
  


After Killua ran, she drove out to the beach house while calling Gon and Alluka back to Quarterway. By the time she got there, the truck was already gone, and the door had been left wide open.

They’ve returned now to do a proper search.

His room is as it usually is; sparse and functional. Clothes are hung neatly in the open closet, and the walls are empty, like it’s just another hotel. The most personal items are a few almanacs on his nightstand, and the family photo beside it. Alluka made the frame in woodshop.

But there’s blood on the doorknob, and the floral wallpaper has been sliced beside the light switch—also bloody—to reveal teal paint underneath.

“Gone,” says Gon, shimmying out from under the bed. “He took enough in cash to travel for about two months without having to worry.”

Alluka returns from searching for a note. “Nothing,” she says, flopping into the corner chair and pulling a leg up against her chest. “Except some blood in the sink.”

“Did you find his phone?” asks Mito, hands on her hips.

Alluka shakes her head.

Then there’s still a way to reach him.

  
  
***  
  


Gon is sixteen, and he has more good days then bad. The same can’t be said for Killua, visiting Whale Island for just the second time. Mito hardly recognized him—the bright kid with the occasional deep scowl has been replaced by a brooding teenager who hardly speaks, except to his (quite excellent) sister. 

“Killua,” says Gon, knocking on the door to his bedroom. He’s lanky and knobbly, having finally crossed through a growth spurt. “Killua, open up.”

“Go away,” shouts Killua, muffled.

Gon doesn’t have a lock on his door, but he doesn’t barge in. Instead, he turns to Mito and shrugs. She passes him the plate of food she’s brought upstairs.

“Alright, Killua,” says Gon. “Food’s here for you, if you want it.”

The two of them wait for a moment, to see if anything will be said. The floorboards don’t so much as creak. Gon leaves the plate and they go downstairs.

  
  
***  
  


Alluka agrees to stay over, and they’ve just found her night light in one of the junk drawers when Gon’s cell rings. He pulls it out of his pocket and picks up without checking the number.

“Hello?” he says, pressing it against his ear like it’s an egg that might crack. Mito holds her breath. His shoulders sag. “Oh, Kurapika. No, it’s nice to hear from you, I was just… expecting another call.”

Shit.

“Put him on speaker,” Alluka mouths, crowding closer to listen. He scowls at her.

“Uh, yeah, he bounced a few hours ago,” says Gon, pacing the guest bedroom. “Let us know if you hear from him.”

Mito bites her lip. She’d assumed that if Killua contacted anyone, it would be one of them. Should they be reaching out to more people, or would he ask them to keep conversations private anyway?

Gon’s eyes widen. “No. That—I don’t think Killua would appreciate us sending blacklist Hunters after him,” he says, finally putting Kurapika on speaker.

“Alright,” says Kurapika, like he truly believes having strangers chase after an unstable Killua is a good idea.

The Markus story, it turns out, is short and sweet. He involved himself with the local mob, acting as an in at the bank, before racking up a debt gambling. Leela was the final warning, and when he still couldn’t scrounge his pennies, he paid, instead, by doing the crummy work of disappearing bodies.

“What kind of debt was it if hiring the Zoldycks was better than writing it off,” says Mito, wringing her wrists.

Alluka, sitting on the bed, opens her mouth to speak.

Kurapika chortles.

Alluka closes her mouth and rubs her temple. There’s a collective sigh.

“Sometimes it’s about broadcasting to anyone watching. For example, if there are other debtors that also owe the organization money, then by hiring the Zoldycks, they can send the message that they mean business. Even if an organization is only able to hire one service—”

“There’s a discount for regulars,” Alluka mumbles, too faintly for him to hear.

“—it can often be enough to scare anyone who catches wind. Additionally, there is a certain amount of prestige associated with hiring the Zoldyck family. In a way, it’s a sign that one’s organization has made it. In other words, by hiring the Zoldycks, you’re classifying yourself in a higher tier. To put it simply—”

“Thank goodness an expert on the Zoldycks is here,” says Alluka.

“Yes, well, it’s relevant to my work,” says Kurapika.

Alluka throws open her hands, smiling incredulously. Mito laughs, and then feels guilty that she’s laughing at a time like this.

“So where is he now?” asks Gon, shushing them with a finger. She rubs the back of her neck self-consciously.

“Miles? Dead. Missing, officially, but dead.”

“No happy ending, then,” she says. Gon’s biting his nails.

Kurapika sighs. “No, not for them. And Leela, as far as I can tell, had a lot of shallow friends, but no one close, aside from Markus and her sister.”

“Thank you, Kurapika.”

  
  
***  
  


And then it’s the next day. And then it’s the day after that. And then it’s Wednesday, and neither she nor Alluka can skip another day of school. She keeps her phone volume turned up, earning some peeved looks during her communications lecture, and arrives home just as Gon is getting ready for work.

“I’ve gotten in touch with everyone I can,” says Gon, to her, through his cracked bedroom door as he changes. “But the problem is that without him, we’re an easy target. I can’t ask anyone I can’t completely trust until Bisky gets here.”

“She agreed to come?” asks Mito.

Gon pops into the hallway as he pulls a t-shirt over his head. “Yeah. So I don’t know what else to do right now other than wait. And if I have to go find him, I can’t really go on my own, and it would be another week or so for Knuckle or Morel or whoever to get here.”

“We’d all go,” says Mito.

Gon shrugs a shoulder. “No, his family is serious business. Once his brother finds out about this, he’ll try and leverage Killua home, and the easiest way to do that is through us. What’s most important is that we stay safe so this doesn’t get any worse than it already is.”

Mito smiles sadly. That makes sense, as much as she doesn’t want to admit it. “I’m sorry you have to think like this,” she says.

Gon frowns, showing a deep hurt he doesn’t often. And then he laughs, averting his eyes to the ceiling. “Actually, I’m kind of glad. I guess I…” He laughs again. And as his smile wavers, she steps forward and pulls him into a hug. He wraps around her, sniffling into her shoulder. 

“I miss Killua.”

“I know.”

Gon splashes off as much of the red splotching on his face as he can before running out the door, fifteen minutes late.

  
  
***  
  


“What.”

“You know I wouldn’t call if it wasn’t serious,” she says. The door to her room is locked. Alluka is showering, and no one else is home.

Ging sighs. “If this is about the follow up mission, you’re not gonna change my mind. No non-Nen users allowed.” And then, somehow gruffer and gentler: “he’d get himself killed.”

Mito pinches the bridge of her nose. “What are you even talking about?”

“Heh?” says Ging.

“Nevermind. Killua’s gone missing.”

“What?” says Ging, his tone turned on a dime into sharp focus. “That’s not possible.”

“He ran off a few days ago after being upset. We haven’t heard from him since, but I thought you might—”

“Oh,” says Ging, immediately falling back into a relaxed gravel. “Oh, okay. Well, the kid probably just needs time. Gon has someone on the way, I assume?”

“Bisky.”

“Yeah, Silva won’t fuck with that old honeybadger. Good choice.”

Mito’s eye twitches. “Not like we had a second.”

The accusation hangs in the air, sharp and poisonous to the touch. Ging flat out ignores it.

“Okay, well, if you think he left on his own then I wouldn’t really worry. He’s basically glued to those two. He’ll find some reason to come back.”

Mito frowns as the shower is shut off. Useless. Useless useless. “Gon’s birthday was last month. I guess your card is still in the mail?”

Ging clears his throat. “Might… yeah. Probably. Service isn’t great out here, yknow?”

She flashes the finger at the receiver and hangs up.

  
  
***  
  


It’s the fifth year anniversary of Kite’s death. Mito forgot, until Gon didn’t come home for dinner. Abe is already in bed when he stumbles through the front door, humming under his breath. Mito, studying in the living room, greets him from the top of the stairs.

“Where have you been, sweetheart?” she asks.

Gon shrugs. He stumbles back half a step, and Mito winces.

“Were you with Killua?”

“No, no,” he says, voice thick, hanging up his coat. “Y’know.”

Mito does know. All too well. It hurts to see him like this.

Gon pulls himself upstairs, leaning on the handrail. “Y’know.”

“Gon,” she says, stepping aside for him. Gon doesn’t turn down the hallway, though.

He flops onto her, heavy and tight. “Mom,” he says, barely holding back tears. “I love you, Mom.”

Mito’s lower lip wobbles. “I love you too, Gon.”

He nods into her shoulder. “I’m doing a lot better now,” he says. “Tonight was just bad. But I’m doing a lot better now. Thank you.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Can I ask you a question?”

Killua sits back on his heels and shields his eyes from the burning afternoon sun. Vira leans forward in her green, plastic lawn chair. There’s something sharp in her eyes, and Killua’s gut is twisting before she so much as opens her mouth.

“What’s it like, for you.”

He lowers his gaze. There’s dirt under his nails. Sweat prickles the back of his neck. “What are you talking about,” he asks.

Vira stills. The chair creaks as she reclines. “I did too, once,” she says.

He shoots her a nervous stare.

She shrugs. “It was the best choice I had,” she says, tapping her reading glasses against the novel in her lap, page held with a thumb. “And I don’t blame myself for what happened. But it still felt awful. And I still think about it.”

Killua swallows hard. He goes back to pulling weeds from the carrots under Alluka’s window. “I don’t miss it.”

  
  
***  
  


Illumi says Killua is death.

Illumi says Killua is death, but Killua doesn’t think that’s quite right. Too much putters in his chest for him to be death. Death, he thinks, would fear nothing. Feel nothing, just like his brother tells him to. But he feels a lot. He feels so much, even though he tries really, _really_ hard not to.

Killua shivers as he stalks through the long grass, tall enough it scratches at his cheeks, towards a house small as a monopoly piece against the hills. Rain soaks through his jacket. Lightning flashes across the sky, illuminating the clouds a potent shade of green, and his brother’s presence is nothing but a blip at the edge of his awareness. His cold fingers have trouble shifting, so he keeps them clawed as he breaks from scrub onto the gravel driveway.

The target’s car hasn’t moved since morning, when they scouted the property from a distance. Killua peeks inside and confirms there’s nothing but lip balm on the center console and a gym bag in the back seat. He accidentally brushes against the dirt-splattered door, and rubs at the mark on his jacket with the heel of his palm.

The front door doesn’t budge when he tries it, so he slips through a banging casement window into the kitchen. Rain pools on the tile, and he hits the ground with a squelch. Killua hisses, stomach flipping at the thought of disappointing Illumi.

He hopes it won’t cost him an extended training session.

The house is unremarkable, and there are no obvious threats. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t there. He can’t relax.

Careful not to draw a creak from the old floors, he checks the first of two bedrooms. He lies on his stomach in a pile of laundry to look under the bed, then presses his ear against the closet door before sliding it open. Nothing but satin dresses and high heels sparkling on the racks.

Just as he’s leaving, he looks up at the ceiling. Illumi is a stickler about that. He says it’s easier, sometimes, to hide in plain sight. He says to remember that, and to use that, but not to forget that others will use it, too.

The other rooms are just as empty, but he still goes through them with systematic diligence. That’s what he’s supposed to be working on right now. Being thorough. Being perfect.

He pauses, for a moment, in the final bedroom. There’s a fish tank in the corner. He doesn’t know what sorts of fish are inside, but they shimmer like mercury, swirling in the bubbles of the aerator.

He taps a finger against the glass, and it chips. The fish don’t react. He drops his hand and returns to the main living area.

Everything is gray in the darkness. There are droopy flowers in a vase on the counter, and the television is on, though it isn’t receiving a signal. Coffee has gone cold beside it, a dozen rings stained on the inside of the cup. Paintings are scattered across the walls haphazardly, too many for it to not seem cluttered.

And the target’s wallet is in a glass bowl beside the front door. Along with a perfume bottle. Curious, he spritzes it. Sort of like oranges, he decides, before flushing and putting it back. He’s supposed to focus.

Killua pushes open the back door screen, and it squeals on its tracks. His fingers are tingling from being strained for so long.

Illumi says he’s death, but he thinks of himself as death’s companion. Sometimes he jumps ahead, guessing where death will go, and sometimes he falls behind, not yet skilled enough to keep up. Sometimes he and death are so close he’s a shadow tied to the bottom of his own feet, pushed from his body by a will as persistent as running water. Sometimes, long after he’s returned home and been dismissed to his room, death is a far, far away dread.

He races death as it gallops down to the beach. Storm clouds rumble over the ocean, and thunder crushes through the air, booming in his lungs. 

It wouldn’t be fair to blame Illumi for believing they’re one and the same. Because when he plunges a blade into the throat of an exercise set loose within the walls of the estate, or slips cloudy drops into the champagne of a fundraiser attendee, he and death are as perfectly aligned as an eclipse. 

He has to believe that.

The target isn’t hiding.

Her arms are at her sides, and she looks out over the waves with a pronounced slump in her shoulders. Maybe, in a different place, and under different circumstances, he would ask if she were lost.

Instead, he draws nearer, pushing down the beach against the wind.

He doesn’t know what alerts her, but she turns and stares at him. He’s already wound to pounce. He should end it, before his cramping fingers fail and he has to use other, less humane methods. But he freezes, caught in her eyes.

At first, all he reads is fear. Then her expression softens into something pained. Something he thinks he might feel, too, but doesn’t have a name for yet. “You’re just a kid,” she says.

And she touches his cheek.

He has to believe there’s as much space between them as there is between the sun and the moon.

  
  
***  
  


He drives until the gas tank is empty. Then he fills it up and drives again. Not from, and not to. Just driving. Trying to keep his eyes on the road and away from the wisps in the peripheral of his vision.

She’s in the ditch. She’s between the supports of an old iron bridge. She’s among the crowd of construction workers laying new asphalt. She’s a long, long way from Quarterway, and the reality of the situation is crystalizing like ice in his chest.

When he finally pulls into an empty parking lot, he checks the phone he should’ve just left behind. There are dozens of missed calls. He drops it in the glove compartment.

A couple blocks away is a twenty-four hour diner, advertised by a flashing neon sign. He walks through the windy, industrial streets with his hands shoved into the pockets of his silk bomber and orders sausage and eggs from a man who seems too young to be so balding.

Killua pulls at the bandages hastily wrapped around his palms as he chews through the meal mechanically. It tastes like cardboard, but that could just be him.

Leela stands in the corner, beside the poster board advertising shows and bowling tournaments up to five years past.

The man, the only person on staff, spends most of his time in the kitchen. He pops into the front when the bell rings, signalling another trucker here for coffee and a quick hello, and he doesn’t speak to Killua, except for when, after an hour sitting there, Killua feels obligated to order another plate to justify his seat at the counter. Not that there’s ever been fewer than all the others free.

“Rough night?” asks the man, as he puts the completely unappealing pancakes down in front of him.

She’s moved. He catches glimpses of her watching him from between the flapping kitchen doors.

“Not my worst.”

“Oh,” says the man. He shrugs a shoulder. “Guess you know you’ll be okay, then.”

Killua pokes one of the chocolate chips with his fork. “Guess so.”

When the man’s shift ends, just as dawn cuts over the mountains, he leaves. And as he lays on the flatbed of the truck, staring at the few stars able to break through both the rising sun and the leaky glow of the city, he turns the sentiment over in his head.

  
  
***  
  


He got stupid. He forgot who he was. Somewhere between setting up Alluka at school and planting a garden, he got swept up in the whole damn facade. The more he pretended to be the person that he wasn’t, that person who cooked family meals and drove Abe back and forth for doctor’s appointments, the more he really believed it. Impressive, honestly, that he fell for his own fucking lie.

The fallow field is little more than churned earth and weeds. He marches into it with his hands in his pockets, rage burning in his chest, as he stares into Leela’s vacant eyes. Behind him, the door of the truck hangs open, dinging a reminder.

“I fucking get it, okay?” he snaps. She’s unaffected by the bite in his tone. “I’m not going back. You win.”

The rural road he’s pulled over on out of impulse is quiet, but not private. Two girls pass by on horseback, staring at him warily. 

Fear is an easier response to handle than admiration, or neighborly friendliness. He’s relieved, in a way, to slip into hard edges and glares. Look at me I’m Killua Zoldyck. I’m Killua Zoldyck, and I can _destroy_ you beyond your comprehension. They push into a cantor. And something tugs in his chest, so he turns back to Leela before it grabs purchase.

“What’s the condition to break the curse, huh?” he asks, picking up a loose stone. “Do I have to die, or do I just need to be unhappy? Because I’m already pretty fucking unhappy.” He flings it at her head, and her form briefly distorts as it passes through her eye.

Who hosts the ghost he hosts the ghost and the ghost is hosted by he and he hurls another rock.

Harder. This one pockmarks the other end of the field, throwing up a rain of dirt.

The real kicker is that she’s not even a ghost! She’s a projection. She’s _himself,_ come knocking.

Maybe it took so long for him to notice because the unyielding _badness_ wasn’t always about her. Sometimes it was about Wolf. Sometimes it was about the night they locked Alluka away and sent him to Heaven’s Arena with an itch between his eyes. Sometimes it was about staring at the untouched plate he had to finish before being allowed to leave the table well into the next morning, because he _knew,_ he _knew_ and he wasn’t old enough yet to have given up on dragging his heels.

Sometimes it was about sparring with Illumi as his parents observed from the corner.

The jobs where he watched life drain from a pair of eyes and didn’t feel anything beyond morbid fascination.

The long, long nights spent in rooms with drains on the floor.

Sometimes, of course, it _was_ about her. It’d always been vague—he couldn’t tell if the dreams were memories or if the memories were dreams, and that made it easy to doubt. Easy to pretend like he was just confused, or combining other jobs into some amalgamated nightmare. Easy to suspect he was under the malevolent influence of some outside force.

But now he knows that she’s _him._ She’s a _reminder_ he manifested. An image, perfectly preserved, of the first job he worked unassisted. A deceptively gentle tug back into Killua Zoldyck, emphasis on the family name, emphasis on the family, emphasis on the trade.

And part of him wants to listen. And he hates himself for it.

Hates himself for having half an excuse to go back home and wanting to take it because home is _easy_ and he knows who he is at home. He’s heir, he’s prodigy, he’s sweeping Canary’s legs out from under her mid-afternoon, outside because it’s a screaming summer day, laughing and teaching and being taught in equal measure under Gotoh’s watchful eye and Tsubone comes to interrupt with a manila folder and a ten-minute warning before the airship leaves. Grab a pair of shoes more suitable for rainy weather, Master Killua.

And he could go back and it would still be awful. He knows that, he knows the worst of it he’s been _through_ the worst of it and come out stronger. Strong in his body, at least. Sharp. And fast. And quick to sadden, sometimes, because he never quite got a hang of the manufactured vacancy his brother tried to drill into his head, but still strong. 

In Quarterway, he’s Sisyphus. But at home, he’s Hercules. And that— _that_ is what he misses. He misses the clarity of it all. He misses the stark answer to the question of whether what he was doing was what he should be doing. Illumi, wretched slime he was, made things simple. Killua hurt people. Killua worked. Killua didn’t have to worry about the names of the people he hurt or worked for, didn’t have to think too hard about the next day, when Mildred and a thousand other Mildreds woke up with a hole where a soul should be.

In Quarterway, he’s smashing his way through the question of whether he even has the right to pursue happiness. To dream of it. At home, the answer to happiness is to kill. Shit answer, honestly. But it’s like balm to the quagmire vortex of his own fucking conscience.

Shit answer, though.

…Shit.

The third stone, which he’d been intending to slug, suddenly feels dry. He drops it, and it hits the ground with a light pap, followed by the thud of his knees in the soil.

He can’t go home. He _won’t._ But he doesn’t know if he can return to Quarterway, either. Not like he is now, at least. If he goes back now, nothing will change. And something _has_ to change.

He has to do _something._

He tilts his head to look up at Leela.

Leela, who used her last words to plant a seed inside of him he’s never quite watered right.

“I get it,” he says, scrubbing his cheeks. “I’m not going back.”

  
  
***  
  


“Aunt Mito?”

There’s a scuffle on her end of the line. “Just wait a moment,” she says, far away from the receiver. “Just a moment. Wait.”

“Alright,” he says, pulling his knees tighter to his chest.

There’s the familiar clat of a wooden door.

“Are you at our house?” he asks.

“Sorry?” asks Mito, suddenly closer.

“Are you at our house?”

“Oh, yeah,” she says. “Plants need watering.”

“Oh, right. Shit. How is the, uh, the gold bush? The new one?”

“I wasn’t sure what to do with it so I just gave it a little.”

“How much is a little?”

“I don’t know? About a—you know, this doesn’t matter. Are you safe?”

Killua sighs. He could almost laugh. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m safe, Aunt Mito.”

“Good, good, I’m glad to hear that. Are you with anyone? We’ve tried calling around, but we figured someone like Bisky could be covering for—”

“I’m alone.”

“Okay. Okay. Are you coming home now?”

At that he pauses. An ant crawls across the inside of the driver side window. “I… have something I have to do first.”

“And then you’ll come home?”

He cracks the glass so it can climb out.

And then… then he’ll think about it. Part of him is scared to go back to Quarterway. His first trip there is becoming as clear in his mind’s eye as the day he left. What if he returns and Illumi is standing straight and cold in the center of the main square, waiting for Killua to return from the market with a pair of earrings for their mother? What if there’s still a room booked at the inn, and he has to wash his hands while counting to sixty under his brother’s watchful eye?

But all of that’s the past, and he knows that a few sanity checks will assuage all of his irrational fears. What isn’t the past is Olga. He’s never cared before about the invisible target on his back. When Abe, well-meaning, suggested he change his name before they moved in, he scoffed. He was who he was, and everyone could just get used to it or get out of his face.

But now—now he has a life in Quarterway. He has a job he cares about, and a sister in school, and a fiancé. And the thought of going back to the gardens knowing some of the people there see him as a monster is heartbreaking. He’s ashamed and angry and deeply, deeply sad. Quarterway is the only real home he’s ever had, and it might not want him.

He doesn’t know how to live with that.

“Killua, you’re so, so loved. So loved, you don’t have any idea.”

Killua snaps out of his trance. He clenches his fist and feels the cuts on his palm break open under their wrappings. “Aunt Mito, do you think it was my fault?”

“What?” she asks, even though they both know exactly what he’s asking.

“I don’t know. All of it.”

“Baby.”

“I killed her. No matter what I do, it follows me. I’m always _there_ I’m always. I killed her. I killed her, I can’t change that.”

“Killua.”

“I can’t take any of it back, I can’t undo it, and I just—I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I don’t know what I should’ve done. Like it’s—I killed her. How are you supposed to say sorry for something like that?”

“Killua.”

He sobs. “If I hurt Gon, how could you ever, ever forgive me? Or Abe?”

Her line crackles silent. Killua presses his forehead into his knees and squeezes his eyes shut. He shudders, throat aching.

“Killua, listen to me. Sometimes there’s no way to move on without regret. And that’s okay, because it means that what you did isn’t who you are.” She says it with so much strength, like she’s reading out the rules of the universe. “You’re going to see Mildred?”

He doesn’t dispute her guess. Instead he sniffs, and snot dribbles down his chin.

Mito sighs. “I don’t know if she’ll forgive you, Killua, but as far as I’m concerned, there was never anything to be forgiven. You were a child. And you didn’t deserve any of it. None of it, Killua. None of it was your fault.”

And it’s exactly what he’s been needing so badly for someone to tell him. Killua rubs his nose with the back of his hand. Relief washes over him, bringing with it days of sleep to catch up on. “Okay. Okay. I’ll be home soon. Don’t worry.”

“I’m going to worry, Killua.”

“Sorry. I’ll see you soon.”

“Stay safe.”

“I will. Thank you.”


	7. Chapter 7

The girl behind the counter has the most ridiculous ringlets he’s ever seen. Her eyes widen as he sets down the bouquet. He’s not the best at arrangements yet, but he’s at least got the good sense to pack some greenery into it.

“Hi, I’d like to—”

“You’re Killua Zoldyck,” she says, voice reverent and eyes wide.

He raises an eyebrow, pulling cash out of his wallet. It still sort of smells like socks. “Why.”

“I love your show,” she says, totalling up his purchase. “Your episode on urban gardening was really inspiring.”

“Oh—I—oh,” says Killua. Right. Of course. Florist. “Thanks.”

“What are you working on now?” she asks, wrapping the flowers in brown paper.

He scratches his ear. “Oh just some, I was thinking, about, xeriscaping, or, I mean, I, like, poison.”

The girl raises an eyebrow. “You like poison?”

Killua shakes his head madly. “No, no, not at! I’m actually, very against, as a practice, the use of, um, actually, why don’t, here—” he says, dropping seven times the cost of the bouquet on the table. “Have a nice say. Day. Have a nice say. Dammit.”

He grabs the flowers off the table and makes a break for the exit.

“Uh, hey—can I get your number?”

Killua freezes, back against the glass door of the shop. “You can reach us on the website!” And he escapes into the street. 

  
  
***  
  


“Oh—you didn’t have to,” says Mildred, as Killua stomps his shoes on the welcome mat. “Where’s your partner?”

“Quarterway,” he says, passing the flowers. Her wrinkled fingers wrap around the bouquet tentatively.

Leela’s fish tank bubbles beside her. Killua doesn’t know what sorts of fish these are, but a few of them are the silver he remembers. He wonders if any of them are the same. 

Mildred shakes her head. She gestures with the flowers, as though intending to thwack him with them. “She died a long time ago, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” says Killua. He rubs his finger on the chip. “Can we sit down?”

  
  
***  
  


It’s midnight at Heaven’s Arena. Most of the tower has gone to bed, and the hallways are nearly empty. Killua’s ears blush red when he passes a woman going down to take advantage of the quiet gyms. The armful of vending machine crap he’s carrying isn’t exactly food fit for a fighter, but he’s not a fighter tonight.

Gon is waiting for him inside their fort. They built it out of all the sheets and sofas and pillows and chairs from Killua’s unused room. It was an effort in itself just to move everything across the floor without being noticed, but Zushi made for an alright lookout. Killua ducks inside and drops his haul on the mattress. The half-crumpled fantasy paperback Gon picked up at a thrift store is chucked aside.

“You got so much!” he says, eye sparkling.

Killua grins, proud. “You bet!” he says, as Gon struggles to rip open chip packaging with one hand and his teeth. Taking pity, Killua snatches it away.

“Hey,” says Gon, pouting.

“Watch this,” says Killua. He puts the bag flat on the mattress and slams his palm down. The bag bursts open with a pop.

“Like an otter,” says Gon, nodding appreciatively. He copies the technique on a second bag.

They pay for a movie on demand and get comfortable. The hanging sheet cuts off the top corner of the screen from Killua’s side, but that’s alright. He’s not really watching the grainy wire fu movie. Gon, with his stream-of-consciousness commentary track, is far more interesting.

For almost an hour, he lets it be easy. They share snacks, make jokes, and restrain themselves from an all out pillow fight for fear of destroying the fort. But eventually, his discomfort creeps up and settles over the evening like a fat toad.

“This monkey is so weird,” says Gon. “But I guess if I had a tail I’d put a knife on it too. Or maybe I’d be worried that I’d accidentally cut myself? Because I wouldn’t be able to see the knife. But then aren’t there blind people who use knives? I bet Machi knows chefs who are blind.”

“Why aren’t you scared of me,” says Killua.

Gon laughs, rudely showing off the candy mash in his mouth. “You’re not scary.”

Killua whips a gobstopper at his head, and Gon squeals, pulling it out of his hair and popping it into his mouth. “That’s not a real answer.”

“It’s true, though,” says Gon.

“Stubborn oaf.”

Gon laughs so hard that Killua thwacks his back, worried he’s choking.

Someday, Gon’s naivety is bound to fade.

  
  
***  
  


Mildred listens with unreadable silence. Every so often, she walks around the couch where he’s giving his confession, head bowed and hands clasped tightly to keep them from shaking. He can’t bring himself to meet her eyes. He can’t even look past his own feet.

But he tells her everything he can. Who he is, and how Leela died, and how deeply, deeply sorry he is, and that he hopes she’ll have some closure now. He stutters through the entire story, start to finish, without leaving a moment's pause. The words would’ve dried in his throat like concrete.

And then it’s over. Mildred waits, for a moment, from where she’s been listening at the window, looking onto the street. When he doesn’t continue, her feet tap closer. Killua squeezes his eyes shut as she takes a slow seat beside him.

And then her arms wrap around his shoulders.

  
  
***  
  


“How old are you, anyway,” asks Gon, sliding the first slice of birthday cake over to Nanika, banging her fork on the counter.

“It’s rude to ask a lady her age,” says Kurapika.

“Are you 30?” asks Gon.

Kurapika’s coy smile turns sour. “I look 30?”

“32?”

Leorio snorts. Kurapika jabs his solar plexus, and he crumbles in half, still giggling.

“Not quite,” says Kurapika, politely.

It’s after hours. Gon convinced the owner to let him host a party at the bar, with the promise that they wouldn’t bother the neighbors with too much noise. It’s the first time they’ve all been together, though. Everyone’s a little too happy to stay quiet.

After cake, drinks are passed around, and the party truly begins. Kurapika spins Alluka between tables, shouting out a song that hasn’t been sung in nearly a decade. Melody accompanies him on the shoddy piano with three missing keys. Gon futzes on her flute, absolutely hopeless, and Leorio sits with him, off to the side, for fear of being roped into the performance.

“I’m glad they get along,” says Killua, tapping a nail against his glass of whiskey. Fancy-man’s drink, Leorio had snarked.

“Did you think they wouldn’t?” he asks, clapping almost on the beat.

Killua shakes his head. “I guess not, no,” he says. But it was still nice to see Kurapika doting on them. It feels good to know he’s not the only person in the world who cares about his sisters.

Leorio sets down his beer and leans back in his chair. He sighs, and Killua raises an eyebrow. “How are you?”

He takes a sip of his whiskey. “Why.”

“Cause you seem weird,” says Leorio. “You’re reminding me of—y’know.”

_After East Gorteau_ goes unsaid.

“I’m happy,” says Killua. “I’m in a room with people who are nice to me. And I can drink as much of this shit”—he gestures broadly with the glass—”as I want without getting all stupid like the rest of you. So good, actually.”

Leorio doesn’t buy it for a second. “People aren’t just being nice to you, Killua,” he says. “You’re pretty fucking great. Hey, hey, don’t make that face, I’m serious. And look—look.”

Killua bites his tongue. Alluka shrieks with laughter as Kurapika drops her into a dip, and Gon whistles. She’s smiling so hard she can’t even keep her eyes open.

“If nothing else, Killua,” says Leorio.

Jane, Mito, and Vira roll in not long after that to derail the night into card games and betting. Killua slips out of any match against Leorio.

  
  
***  
  


The pot handle is slippery from blood. Steam rises from the scalding water, which sloshes onto the carpet as he shakily makes his way to the hallway closet. Maybe Jarvis can sense his intentions, because Killua has never seen him yowl like this.

He pushes open the door with his foot.

Jarvis hisses, recoiling from the light. His tongue flicks out of his venus fly trap mouth, poisonous saliva glistening.

“It’s for the best,” says Killua. But he doesn’t move to pour the water.

Jarvis wiggles, trying to escape the big clay pot. Killua learned on the first night to put concrete blocks on top of the soil to keep him from getting stuck halfway into the closet’s obsolete central vac inlet.

“Mito will get here soon,” he says, wincing. “I have to go. I have to do this.”

Jarvis screeches, clearly terrified.

“Fuck,” says Killua. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Fuck you, you little, gross little, God! God, I just—fuck you!”

He kicks the door closed and races to pour the water down the kitchen drain. Killua leaves it drying on the rack, grabs his go bag, checks to see if the paint colour he remembers is underneath the wallpaper, and then flies down the driveway as fast as his car will go without drifting into the ditch.

  
  
***  
  


Killua is allergic to the idea that he might not be a terrible person. Because if he isn’t a terrible person, then his family didn’t love him. If he was just a kid, and he didn’t deserve it, didn’t deserve to be electrocuted and poisoned and made to kill, then he’s left with a truth that makes him squirm. Everyone he looked up to, everyone he admired, everyone he sought to emulate—they didn’t love him. Not in the way you’re supposed to love your son, or your little brother.

It’s unconscionable to think of his family as so fundamentally _wrong._ And it’s nauseating to recontextualize his entire life without the central pillar of his own, immutable badness. He’d never agreed with the surface level demands his family made of him. Heir seemed boring, and he hungered for peers. But the idea that hurting him was alright because he wasn’t the sort of person who deserved tenderness? That forging him into something unbreakable was in his best interest?

Truthfully, he never felt unbreakable, anyway. And he certainly doesn’t feel unbreakable now, pulling up to the cemetery in the passenger seat of Mildred’s car.

For years, he did what a good person would do. He loved with all his heart, and he made the world just a little bit better in the small ways he could think to do so. But he never allowed the doing of decent things to pollute his own understanding of himself and his place in the world.

And now a woman who should hate him— _hate_ him, with fire in every stitch of her being—leads him to a headstone under a great big oak tree with his hand held in hers.

If Killua is a good person, not just someone capable of doing the odd nice thing, not just a malicious weapon, then what’s he left with? Years of hell that meant _nothing?_ The chore of sweeping up the ashes of an identity he’s clung to since he learned to walk?

Mildred places the flowers on the earth, and Killua falls to his knees, slumping over, forehead in the grass. She wraps her arms around him, and though neither of them speak, he doesn’t feel alone with the press of her breathing chest against his back.

But isn’t that better—to do the hard work of unpacking it all and laying his assumptions out under the sun—than to continue as he’s been going? So deeply apathetic to his own wellbeing that constant hallucinations, chronic insomnia, and suicidal depression weren’t even worth acknowledging? 

Mildred drives him back to her house, and he promises to visit, and he promises to invite her up, sometime, for family dinner. And she kisses his forehead, and he catches a smile on her face that seems, for the first time, unweighted.

Killua considers a wonderous, terrifying, exhilarating idea.

Maybe he’s okay.

And he gives her the same gift, of wrinkled eyes unguarded, in return.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Ash for learning so much abt Killua against your will, to Cole for making sure I didn't name it "phantom of the opera but the opera is a beach," and to my betas Emma @synaesthetic and @grammarpedant. And huge huge huge thanks to MRUndisclosed who read the first of many drafts this little bastard had and told me my Killua characterization was a little off and that Killua got sad, but he always tried to fix it. Sir you were right and I did my best to follow that advice. And thank you to everyone who's read snippets here and there and encouraged me to continue writing!
> 
> whipshaw.tumblr.com


End file.
